


Cool Rider

by opal_bullets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Biker Castiel (Supernatural), Brawling and Fisticuffs, Happy Ending, Identity Porn, M/M, Mathematics, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Motorcycles, Questionably Accurate Stunts, Teacher Castiel (Supernatural), Two Person Love Triangle, deancaspinefest, slight non/con touching between Dean and Alastair in the last chapter during said fisticuffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23934925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opal_bullets/pseuds/opal_bullets
Summary: Student teacher Castiel has a plan for himself, but no plan can withstand an encounter with the vibrant Dean Winchester, older brother to one of his students. Dean’s creativity, dedication to others, and zest for the little things leave Cas with the uncomfortable realization that having a career isn’t the same thing as having a life. He’s got no clue how to go about getting one, but that rusty motorcycle in the scrapyard might make a good start…After a bad breakup, dropout Dean has been trying to turn his life around. In a perfect world he'd already have it together enough to be worthy of smart, sweater-wearing Castiel, Sam's new student teacher. But he almost forgets those blue eyes in favor of a mysterious biker who steps out of his dreams and into the fray, right when Dean's ex Alastair comes back looking to stir up some trouble.A wonky two-person love triangle loosely inspired byGrease 2.
Relationships: Alastair/Dean Winchester (past/mentioned), Bobby Singer/Karen Singer, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 82
Kudos: 425
Collections: Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Salvage

**Author's Note:**

> Dean and Sam's age gap is a couple years wider in this story, putting Dean and Cas around 24/25.
> 
> Thank you for the mods for another wonderful round of pinefest. Your kindness is exemplary and much appreciated.
> 
> And another mighty, heartfelt thanks for Hazel aka deathbycoldopen for her patience, understanding, and art more beautiful than I ever could have imagined for this fic. Please go tell her at her [art masterpost](https://deathbycoldopen.tumblr.com/post/616866028267421697/art-for-the-deancaspinefest-fic-cool-rider-by) how wonderful she is.

**THEN: ABOUT A YEAR AGO**

The legal front of the chop shop was called Old Nick’s, but not too many legitimate customers ever stumbled across it. The place stayed afloat through a strong criminal network and a loyal customer base not prone to asking too many questions. It was the best place for illegal custom motorcycles not just in Milwaukee, but Chicago and a fair bit beyond: long miles meant little hardship for those who liked to be out on the road.

The heart of the chop shop, where stolen bikes came in to either get torn apart or built into something new, was in a large warehouse deep within the industrial wastelands of the city, once the bustling center of blue-collar commerce, now largely crumbling and abandoned. Alastair ran the place, a thin man with a short beard, not often seen without the vest that declared him the leader of the Hellraisers—they were the motorcycle club that owned the outfit. If not out sourcing stolen bikes, he liked to pace back and forth along elevated walkways or lean over the rails outside of his office, sneering down at the floor below, which they called the Pit.

That’s where Dean worked.

The Pit was full of engineers and mechanics and painters and bike experts of all kinds. Men and women worked in close quarters without much room to create their frankensteined masterpieces, often in nothing but tanks and jeans in the heavy air, tattoos wrapped around their arms and dotting their necks. A large garage door stayed open in good weather for ease of bike transport and to let in a fresh breeze, but it didn’t do much to cut through the heat or the stink of metal and oil and gasoline. The Pit was dark, too, sparks spraying in arcs as welders went about their jobs, flashing orange against the walls. More than anything else, though, the Pit was loud: tools buzzed, music pumped through speakers, engines revved, people shouted to be heard above it all. It was large operation with a lot of moving parts, but given that there was a Harley plant just down the road, there was never a shortage of bikes to steal, or talent to poach. Of course, there were few like Dean who’d stumbled into the Pit and never crawled back out if it. Despite that, somehow, he’d become a favorite of Alastair’s.

Dean wasn’t dumb enough to think it was because he was young and hot (that’s to blame for what came later), but because Dean had been born with a wrench in his hand. Cars and bikes were in his blood; his dad had been a mechanic, and Dean had grown up running underfoot at Singer Salvage where he worked. The owners, Bobby and Karen, had practically adopted him over the years and Dean couldn’t have asked for a better education, learning the art of restoring vehicles and replacing parts before he ever mastered long division.

Chopping, at least the way Hellraisers liked it, had a learning curve but under Alastair’s tutelage it was only a small leap. Dean was just old enough to have good skills and still young enough to train; in no time at all Dean could look at a newly stolen bike and see it only for its parts. He could crack them open faster than anybody else, scrub the serial numbers from its insides, mutilate and remove part after part until it was unrecognizable. Then he would build a chopper in its place to Al’s or a customer’s exact specifications. And they were never the sorts of choppers that people built by themselves out of love for the craft, with what was available to them _salvaging_. Choppers that came out of the Pit were always monsters, with ape hanger handlebars and the loudest mufflers on the market.

Dean was so good at it, Alastair trained him for more. He showed him the best places, the best circumstances to steal bikes and how to bring them undetected to the Pit. How to talk to buyers and stick hooks into new ones. How the cash flow worked, how the thieves and mechanics were managed, the hierarchy within the Hellraisers. And if ever Dean’s conscience got too loud, pounding inside his chest like a desperate heart, Alastair always seemed to know. That’s when he’d throw Dean the keys to some chopper and they’d ride to his place, or Dean’s dingy efficiency, or even some bar where you never asked about noises in the backroom, and with his hot breath Al hissed words of possession into Dean’s ears between biting kisses and shoving him against the wall, fingers digging cruelly into his hips as Dean begged and begged, wanting nothing more than to get lost in his body and forget. The method worked, because each day his conscience got a little quieter, and he wore the resulting bruises with pride.

That didn’t explain how more and more, amidst the Pit’s chaos, he found himself frozen. He’d come back to himself standing still, clutching the talisman hanging from his necklace. Sammy had given it to him years ago. When was the last time he’d called his brother, again?

“Hey!”

Dean started and turned. Abaddon was behind him, straddling a bike she’d just ridden in. The engine was loud in Dean’s ears, something off about the whine in it, but still going strong. Abaddon revved it one last time now that she had his attention, just to be an asshole. Only then did she shut it down and hop off. Dean waited for her to toss him the keys, but she dangled them off the tip of her finger instead. Barely refraining from rolling his eyes, Dean stretched his arm over the bike and held out his hand. The horns of the talisman had left deep indents in his palm.

Abaddon dropped the keys into his waiting hand, but quick as lightning she gripped his wrist, thumbnail digging into its delicate underside. She stared him down through her red, windswept hair—she rarely wore a helmet, if ever. Out of sight, Dean reached behind himself for a wrench and curled it in his fist. “Can I help you?” he asked flatly.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been slacking lately, Dean,” she said. “If I catch you daydreaming on the clock again, I don’t care how much Al likes your pretty face. I’ll claw it off.” Her red lips spread in a predatory grin.

Dean sneered. “I’ll rip you apart first.”

She laughed in a high peel that danced above the Pit’s noise. “I’d like to see you try.” She shoved his arm away. “For now, rip this apart instead. Al’s orders. Doesn’t want anyone else but you to touch it.” She slung her hands in to the pockets of her leather vest, covered in the patches that put her high in the Hellraisers’ ranks, and started walking backward. “I bet that’s what he tells you in bed at night. How sweet.”

The flash of rage burned hot inside Dean, but he stayed still out of self-preservation as she turned and sauntered away. When he was sure she was gone he threw the wrench back onto the table and redirected his attention to the bike.

With a glance he knew it was a classic Honda off-roader. Late 60s, by her curves, twin exhaust pipes stacked on the left side. She was sorely in need of a paint job, chrome chipping, and rust was eating her up in places besides, so it was little wonder that Alastair would rather strip her for parts than build her into something else. Dean crouched to inspect the wheels. They were in surprisingly good shape, given the state of the rest of her. As for the engine…he did a quick scan. It needed a little TLC, but given that Abaddon had ridden it okay, and that the bones were good, he didn’t see why he couldn’t…Dean hesitated to reach for his tools, even with Abaddon’s threat still lingering overhead. He’d stripped hundreds of bikes before. What made this one so different? She was old, so what? But in asking himself the question he already had the answer: the bike wasn’t an it, but a _she_.

Bobby had said something to him about it once, when he was a little kid, and asked why the Impala was different. The ‘67 Chevy was his dad’s car, but it was the sort of question he liked to take to Bobby because his dad could be dismissive, sometimes, and Bobby never talked down. “The way I see it,” he’d said, “is that if you really take care of something, respect it, pour your time and soul into it…well I think sometimes it grows a little soul of its own.” He’d rolled up to Dean in his wheelchair and clasped him on the shoulder—the sort of gesture someone made when they were proud of you. “I’m glad you’re the type of person who can see that, Dean. Very glad.”

Dean had to steady himself on the bike to stop from falling on his ass. He grabbed his necklace again, crushing the talisman against the keys. A lot of the bikes that got chopped in the shop were new buys or trophies hardly ridden but some of them, damnit, some of them had souls. Even separated from the person that had poured out their love, Dean could always see it. He’d never stopped seeing it.

And now Dean was seeing something else. Seeing that all this time, Alastair hadn’t been stripping and rebuilding motorcycles, welding them into grotesque shapes that showed respect to neither body nor parts. That’s what everyone else was for. No…Alastair had been stripping Dean, skinning him alive, peeling back his layers, skillfully ripping out his parts, discarding anything he didn’t like, then shoving his tender insides back together in whatever way he saw fit—not to make a person who _couldn_ _’t_ see souls, but a person who _did_ , tore into them anyway, and _liked it_.

Al had been hinting lately that Dean was about ready to become an initiate in the Hellraisers. About ready for what? His mind clambered to answer the question, filling it with everything he suspected about the gang but still didn’t know, didn’t want to know. Dean might not recognize who the hell he was anymore, but it wasn’t that. It sure as fuck wasn’t that.

Dean stood and circled the bike slowly. Never turning his head to give himself away, he watched the Pit out the corner of his eyes. Business as usual, it seemed. No one looking down from above, and no one looking to bother Alastair’s protégé. Not a single one of the bottom dwellers would think to question him if he were to leave right now. They weren’t the ones that held his chains.

He swung his leg over the bike and settled in the seat. It was worn down and a bit uncomfortable, but the tank was full enough to get him started, so it would do. He put the keys in the ignition; the engine only took a little coaxing to roar back to life. With the ease of experience he steered her through the Pit toward the open garage door. He barely breathed as he rolled out onto the road, certain that Al would come careening around the corner any moment on his chopper of the week. But by some miracle, the neighborhood remained empty of traffic and he slipped seamlessly into the bustle of a Milwaukee rush hour. Dean’s apartment wasn’t near the Pit, exactly, but still too close for Dean’s liking. Fear lent him speed as he threw the bike into park and ran into the building.

He’d come into town with only a duffel slung over his shoulder, and he was going to be leaving it the same way. Within five minutes he was packed, and before he flew out the door he shrugged his leather jacket over his white tank—not the one Alastair had bought him, impractical, tight as a straitjacket—but his dad’s old one, even now too big in the shoulders, but still a warm, comforting weight.

Once back outside, he looked up as he secured the strap of his bag across his chest. The clouds were gathered ominously on the horizon, a storm coming in from the northwest, and he wondered whether it was rain or the first snow of the season. Hopefully by leaving now, he’d stay south of it. Either way he had to hope the bike could handle the journey. “Don’t let me down, girl,” he told her, and pulled out of the lot.

He rode and he rode, and didn’t dare stop. Not too long after leaving city limits he hit the edge of the storm, which pelted tiny snowflakes at him that pricked his skin like ice. A few drops of rain; then nothing but the bitter wind tearing past him, taking with it the last of the Pit’s cloying heat, leaving nothing but the memory of it. A bad dream.

Dean sped through the night, barely stopping long enough for gas, his fear dogging him like a hound at his heels. There would be no sleep. Then, at last, the dawn sun the barest golden hint on the horizon behind him, Dean rolled to a stop, his headlight splashing against the gates of Singer Salvage.

He hadn’t questioned his plan to come here, had driven west with a single-minded purpose, but seeing it in person was almost a shock. It still existed the same as it ever was, untouched, unsullied—the only sanctuary that might welcome a monster like him. Dean gulped and rode forward again, past the gate down the old, cracked asphalt drive, past the garage, past the lot full of customers’ cars, around the bend, past the house where the Singers lived with his brother. Could they ever forgive him?

No, better not risk it. Just beyond the house, through gravel and grass, was the salvage yard with its towers of cars standing like sentinels. Did they already know what he’d done? Would they judge him, find him wanting? Let them. That’s what Dean was going to do: ride deep into the yard, into its darkest corners, and lay down under the towers’ shadows, adding his bones to theirs. A mechanic’s mausoleum.

But he was barely past the first row when the bike’s engine stuttered, the headlight blinking out. She’d driven across three states, through wind and rain, had given everything Dean had asked of her. Now, on the edge of the salvage yard, her engine went quiet, and she died. Alright, then. They’d come far enough. “Thank you,” Dean said, through chattering teeth. His hands uncurled from the handlebars. It took him two tries to get the kickstand down, then he slid off her side into the grass. His arm didn’t quite make it, still draped over the frame in half an embrace. He shivered, his eyes shuttering closed. “Thank you…” he murmured. The words got lost, wisps on the wind.


	2. Beginnings

**NOW**

Castiel had always loved autumn. Everyone else liked to think of it as the world dying, the steady slip of warmth seeping away, the end of sun and summer. An end, full stop. But for Castiel, it was all about beginning. As a kid this meant school: new backpack, new lunchbox, new box of 120 crayons with which to wow his classmates. Glue sticks and silly-shaped erasers and safety scissors. Later it meant binders and new shoes and new jeans that could barely keep up with rapidly lengthening legs; page protectors and poster board and pens. In high school it meant a new season of track and field, during which Castiel ran all the sprints (and ran, and ran, and never quite fast enough for his liking). It also meant endless mechanical pencils and a graphing calculator with pristine new graph paper notebooks to match, waiting for him to fill them with numbers and symbols and shapes. Fall was, in short, the whole world cleaning its slate and making ready for a young boy such as him to reinvent himself.

Even as he’d grown older and Castiel had realized that reinvention was an illusion—how much of his own person could he possibly be, walking the path his parents had set for him?—he’d never quite gotten rid of that giddy feeling in his stomach when he breathed in the cooling air, or walked under orange and yellow leaves. It was like an instinct, his body priming itself for new challenges. For the last few years he’s shoved it aside, but now…now his family had no control over him, he was in a small Midwestern city they’d probably never been to, and it was autumn.

The bees buzzing in his gut flew into frenzied swarm when he walked around the corner and saw Hunter High. Oh, he’d already been in and out of the building for the last couple of weeks in his new role as student teacher; his teacher-mentor Naomi Milton has been walking him through everything a math teacher might need to prepare for a new school year. But the school had hardly been worthy of the name, then. It was empty, quiet enough to hear the slight squeak of his oxfords as he walked down the hall, or for a teachers’ conversation to echo off the lockers. It’d been like a great big slumbering beast, hibernating—or lying in wait. Because this morning it was gloriously _awake_.

The street was busy, cars coming in from both directions, turning into a lot that was already mostly full. A line of yellow buses snaked along the side of the building, and everywhere there were students: hopping off the buses, sliding out of cars, gliding in on bikes. It was noise and chaos and despite the letterman jackets being the wrong colors, despite it being public and not private, despite the fact he wasn’t a student anymore, it really wasn’t so different from what Castiel remembered. It was a bit like stepping into a memory long past and long forgotten. He adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, hitching it higher on his shoulder.

School was about to begin.

***

In his stint working for his family as an accountant, a suit was the required uniform. Castiel had always felt that they didn’t quite fit, and he felt even more awkward among the teachers, those that had been at it for a long time; some old battle axes still went for skirts and hose, but most had jeans and a nice shirt. It made Cas appear childish in his slacks and the tie he could never seem to get quite right, but then he stood in front of a high school classroom the first time and realized that if he was still a kid, high schoolers were _babies_.

He was only 24, and truly he thought that high school wasn’t long behind him, but the students’ round faces and easy acceptance of Naomi’s announcement that he would indeed be another authority figure for them made him rethink that assessment. He hadn’t blinked when million-dollar accounts had plopped in front of him, but should he really be put in charge of young brains when his own wasn’t even fully developed? At least for the first semester he was going to be more Naomi’s shadow than anything, and for that he tried to be grateful.

The first week passed in the blink of an eye. It was a mad scramble of trying to learn almost 200 names, changing gears for each class and their learning level, and doing his own homework, reacting to everything he witnessed. Naomi was not the type of teacher that invited laughter and jokes into the conversation; she lectured clearly and evenly, but would accept no interruption without a raised hand. Not that there was much of that, unfortunately. To Castiel’s chagrin, nothing had changed since the few years he’d been in school: the subject that gave him the most joy seemed to leave many students lost or bored. What was a revelation was having the vantage point from the front of the classroom, because he realized every small infraction he’d thought he’d gotten away with had simply been let past by the teacher. He had a perfect view of every yawn, every thousand-yard stare, every hidden phone, every passed note. Unless it was egregious Naomi said nothing.

Still, by Friday the results were telling. Castiel and Naomi were still ensconced in her classroom—walls bare of any colorful posters or personal touch—because it was easier to spread out there than her cubicle in the faculty offices. Naomi was divvying up the homework to be graded, and flipping through his stack, Castiel couldn’t help but notice how abysmal some of the worksheets were. “Is it always so bad just after summer?”

“Be specific, Castiel,” said Naomi, poring over her AP Calc lessons for the next week.

“All the little mistakes. Basic things they should have remembered…you would think the story problems for Algebra 2 were written in a different language.”

Naomi looked up from her notes and fixed him with the kind of stare that made Cas want to tug at his tie. “The instructions for the homework are perfectly clear. If the students don’t want to put in the time or effort to read the directions or ask for help, that is their choice. Does it take time for the children to reacclimate to being in school? A little. But sooner or later you’re going to have to come to grips with the fact that you can’t help everyone, do you understand? There will always be students who fail. That doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”

Castiel had been earning his Masters in Education for a year; he was well aware that some students were going to fail. She just seemed so…unaffected by the idea. “I was just thinking…” he started. She raised her eyebrows. Cas cleared his throat. “I remember when I was in school, a teacher of mine taught us a trick with story problems. He called it the Man in the Box Method. I think it was a reference to something. He always used to sing it, like _I_ _’m the man_ —” Naomi’s lips thinned, and he redirected. “Anyway. You draw a box, and make as many compartments as there are variables. Then you take the man in the story problem, and you plug him in—”

“Castiel,” Naomi interrupted. “You are to teach mathematics, not metaphor. We don’t have the luxury of singing and dancing for the sake of two students.”

He took a breath, uncertain whether he should push the issue, but forging ahead nonetheless. “I don’t think that spending time teaching extra tools would—”

A knock at the door.

“Come in.” Naomi primly set her pen down on top of her notes, turning to greet their caller. But when the door swung open, her nostrils flared. “Principal Metatron.”

“Ms. Milton!” The principal was on the short side, with graying curly hair and an endless closet of khakis and cardigan sweaters. “And young Castiel! If you wouldn’t mind giving us a moment?”

Castiel blinked. He may have a soft and frumpy outward appearance, but behind his smile lurked the same shark Cas had had to deal with on Wall Street. He couldn’t help but flick his eyes to Naomi, who gave him a slight nod. Leaving his things behind, he hurried out into the hallway and closed the door behind himself…then cursed at his stupidity for not even bringing his phone. He crossed his arms, suit jacket pulling at his shoulders, and leaned against the wall next to the classroom.

The rest of this wing of the school was empty, the other math teachers having either gone to their cubicle or driven home. Castiel couldn’t help but overhear the conversation.

“Word came down from the superintendent this morning,” Principal Metatron was saying. “It seems _someone_ told him that I’ve been neglecting my work. Which is, of course, absolutely absurd. And while I told him this, he still insisted that I can no longer be in charge of the school’s theatre.”

“There are over 2,000 students at this school, Marv,” Naomi answered. “And they need you to do your job. Whoever talked to the superintendent had their best interests at heart, I’m sure. Hire someone to actually teach drama like you should have when Ellie retired and chalk it up to a failed experiment.”

“Whoever talked?” came the response. “Whoever?!”

Noise drifted down the hallway, such that Castiel heard it before he saw the cause. A group of students was wandering past the math wing, chattering over each other. They were almost past when the student bringing up the rear paused and caught Cas looking. “Hey!” he called, waving, and peeled off from his friends.

Wary of the tense meeting going on behind him, Cas stepped further from the classroom. “Hello, Sam.” Sam Winchester was one of the first names he’d learned; not only was he strikingly tall, but he actually showed some genuine interest in calc class, which endeared him to Castiel.

“Hi, Castiel, uh…” He swept his bangs out of his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, where the others had wandered back to the intersection to wait. “Have you seen anyone else around here? Faculty, I mean? We’re supposed to be working on the fall play but all the theatre entrances are locked.”

“Ah,” said Castiel. The sinking feeling in his stomach was more of a sudden weight. “I think that’s what’s being discussed by Ms. Milton and Principal Metatron.”

Sam’s face made a little oh of understanding, but instead of backing off and waiting, he took a long stride past Castiel and stood to listen at the door—close but perfectly out of range of the thin window inside that would betray him which, Cas thought wryly, spoke of experience. Sam held his hand up to halt the others from coming closer, but said nothing when Cas did.

“Oh, it’s too late for that, Naomi,” the principal was saying. “It turns out the football players need new jocks this year. No room in the budget for theatre.”

“Don’t be petty.”

“Petty? No no no. _Practical_. You see, I was doing my job all day today, making sure all our accounts are in order. The budget has been finalized. And now someone needs to break down the numbers for the students. Do you know any math teachers who might want to volunteer?”

There was a pause before Naomi answered. “You want me to look like the bad guy here.”

“I’m sorry that’s how you see it,” said Metatron, with blatantly false regret. “But I’m sure the students are confused by now. The theatre’s been locked up, you see, and we wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, now would we?”

Sam jerked away from the door, startling Castiel into moving as well. Just in time: the door swung open, and the principal stepped out with a smirk still aimed back inside. It dropped when he saw everyone in the hallway. The smile he quickly plastered on did not fool Castiel, nor did it fool Sam, judging by his clenched jaw. Castiel ducked his head, staring at the floor as Naomi was forced to haltingly explain to the students that they should go home. It seemed that no matter where he went, powerful people schemed and the undeserving got screwed over.

So much for new beginnings.

***

Naomi dismissed Castiel not long after the theatre kids had slunk away. He hitched his messenger bag higher on his shoulder and stepped out a side door into the sun. It was still warm enough that he was regretting all of his layers, since he had a half hour’s walk back to his tiny campus apartment. He debated whether he should take off his jacket or just power through it, when he heard someone calling his name. Cas scanned the parking lot until he saw two figures standing by a large garage door that opened into the school, one of them waving enthusiastically. It was Donna, the shop teacher. “Come here, won’t ya?” she said.

Castiel liked Donna; he hadn’t interacted with her much yet, but her warm smile always made him feel welcome when they crossed paths. He walked over and saw she was standing with a guy around his own age, and what a guy. Cas had been to some very nice places in his life, cities and businesses and banquets where people dressed to the nines and spared no expense to get noticed. But every single one of them paled in comparison to him though he was wearing worn jeans and a red flannel shirt, his short hair tousled, with not a mote of powder on his face to hide his large splash of freckles.

“Yeah, hiya,” said Donna. “I’d like you to meet a former student of mine: Dean. Dean, this is Castiel.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Cas, holding out his hand.

Dean quirked his lips in a smile and took it. “You too. Interesting name.”

He had a strong handshake. “Cas is fine.”

“Cas it is.”

Dean was looking at him with a certain intensity—his eyes were a pure green—that Castiel took a chance and let his fingers trail along Dean’s when they drew their hands apart. They realized at once that they were both trying the same thing, and they briefly broke eye contact before reconnecting a little shyly. Cas saw him clench and unclench his hand at his side. Now this really was like high school all over again.

“Yeah,” said Donna, hands on her hips as she looked between them. “He’s our new student math teacher.”

“Teacher, huh?” said Dean, his expression shuttering a bit.

“Student teacher,” Cas emphasized, in case that was the issue.

“And Dean works over at Singer Salvage,” Donna continued. “They partner with the school if I need something for my auto class. Speaking of,” she pointed over her shoulder back into the shop, “I’ll go grab that invoice for ya.” She headed inside.

“So which one of these junkers is yours?”

Confused, Castiel turned and realized that Dean was scanning the parking lot, mostly empty. “Oh,” he said. “None of them. I don’t own a car.”

“You don’t?” asked Dean, surprised. Granted, being carless around here was a lot more uncommon than in all the other places Cas had lived, as it was the best way to get around, but Dean seemed unduly disappointed by the revelation. “Is it because you don’t like them?”

Castiel felt slightly wrong-footed. That wasn’t usually the first assumption people made, given he was a grad student and all. “I had to sell my car to move here,” he explained. “I do get a stipend with my masters, but it’s not all that much.”

“Oh. Course. Just wondering ‘cause, you know” —he scuffed a boot on the pavement— “you can tell a lot about a person from their car, and how they take care of it.” He lifted his hands, wiggling his fingers for Cas’s benefit. “Mechanic.”

“Understandable,” Cas acknowledged, smiling.

Dean smiled back, his confidence seeming to build. “So the next question is,” he said, “if you _could_ have a car, any car in the world, what would it be?”

That was definitely a getting-to-know-you date question, if Cas had ever heard one, but he found himself stymied. “I…I don’t know,” he said, after a moment. “I suppose I’ve never thought about it before.”

Whatever small thing had been building between them began to dissipate with a slight slump of Dean’s shoulders. “Never?”

Castiel did Dean the courtesy of thinking about it a little harder, and…well, the car his parents had bought for him had been a sensible four-door sedan that was perfectly serviceable, but honestly he couldn’t recall what type it was, though he thought maybe the brand was Ford. Chrysler. Something American? He’d never been all that attached to it; had never used it back then as much as he could probably use it now. And given his parents, and their friends, and his older brothers, he’d seen a fair amount of flash cars, tiny red convertibles and enormous SUVs with tinted windows, sports cars so low to the ground they didn’t reach his waist. The truth of it was they’d only ever seemed like toys to him, large things that the people around him leased for a year and got rid of for the next big thing—or collected in garages, never to be driven. Castiel had never thought that they indicated anything about those people other than that they had the money to spend on them.

This was, quite clearly, not the sort of information Dean was after. He knew far more about cars than Castiel did, after all, and Castiel wouldn’t even know which one to lie about, if he’d been so inclined. Which he wasn’t. “No,” he said at last. “Not really.”

Dean nodded, like it was just what he’d expected. “Too bad,” he said, and to Cas’s ears it sounded like a slammed door.

It didn’t feel very fair to base compatibility on one subject, as important as it may be to Dean. But before he think of what to say, Donna returned. “Look who I found!” she said. Sam Winchester was with her.

“Thanks for coming early, Dean,” the student said, then caught sight of Castiel. His eyes widened then darted away, no doubt remembering what they’d just overheard together.

“No problem,” said Dean. “Sorry about your play, dude.” He put an arm around Sam’s shoulders and tugged him into a hug.

Cas squinted in confusion. Donna nudged him with his elbow. “Brothers,” she said. That would definitely explain it.

The teenager only allowed the hug briefly before shrugging him off and adjusting is heavy backpack. “It’s not just about the play,” said Sam. “It’s my main extracurricular. What am I supposed to put on my college apps now?”

“If I may…?” started Cas. Dean looked wary, but Sam looked at him with something like hope. He didn’t have the answer he probably wanted, but he thought he may as well try. “I’ll be in charge of math club this year, and I’m going to put an emphasis on combinatorial games to make things more fun. Our first meeting is next Thursday, if you want to think about it.”

“You hear that, Sammy? A nerd club, just for you!” Dean hooked an arm around his brother’s neck and tried to pull him down for a noogie.

“It’s _Sam_ ,” he whined, shoving Dean away. “And you’re the nerd.”

“Tch, no I’m not.”

“Well, I am,” said Castiel. Sam snorted half a laugh, but Dean was looking at him with mild surprise. So Cas lifted his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Math teacher.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth trembled, like he was fighting a smile. “Sounds about right,” he said. “All good, Donna?”

“Yep, here it is.” Donna handed him a couple sheets of paper.

He skimmed them, and seemed satisfied. “Awesome. Ready, Sammy?”

“ _Sam_ ,” he hissed, punching his brother hard in the arm. Dean just laughed it off and started walking toward a white tow truck with _Singer Salvage_ emblazoned in blue on the side. Sam sighed and looked at his teachers sheepishly. “Um, I’ll think about the club.” Dean honked the horn. Sam rolled his eyes and turned to leave. “Bye!”

“See ya!” called Donna.

“Goodbye, Sam.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder and watched the truck reverse out of its spot, pull to the lot exit, and turn onto the road. Rock started filtering through the open windows as it rumbled away. “That Dean’s quite a looker,” said Donna as it disappeared down the block. She smiled up at him slyly. “Don’t ya think?”

Cas drew in a breath, but he came up short for a non-incriminating answer.

Donna didn’t need one, apparently. She just patted the hand with a death grip on his bag in commiseration, and went back inside.

***

All the next week Castiel advertised the math club. He wrote up a small blurb for the daily school-wide announcements, and the day of Naomi let him talk a little bit about some of the games and logic puzzles and other cool things he’d have for them to play. When school was over he took over her classroom, pushing desks together into station and setting up a small array of snacks in the back. To his delight, a few students began to trickle in and take a look around.

One of them was Sam Winchester. “Thank you for coming,” said Cas.

“I thought it was worth a look,” Sam shrugged. “Got anything besides chess?”

“Sure,” smiled Cas. “Have you heard of nim?”

By the time an hour had elapsed, all the kids, or so it looked to Castiel, were happily ensconced playing games at their stations of choice. Thus he was the only person to notice the moment a man shadowed the doorway. To his surprise, it was Dean. He’d been half-expecting never to see him again, but he couldn’t say he was disappointed.

Dean was surveying the room, fiddling with a plain necklace with some kind of figure on the end. When he caught Cas looking, he smiled ruefully. “Sam said he was going to be done twenty minutes ago. I got tired of waiting.”

“Of course.” Cas waved him in. “The nim tournament’s getting pretty heated.” He gestured to the middle of the room, where two pairs of students were playing intently, and a few more watched on—all of them new to the game. He couldn’t help but feel it was his first real success as a teacher.

“I didn’t know math had spectator sports,” Dean joked.

“Sometimes we do,” Cas grinned. He was loath to interrupt the kids, but “Would you like to wait, or do you and Sam need to get going?”

“Nah, no rush.” He rocked on his heels, then wandered to the chess station nearby. A couple of kids had abandoned the pieces mid-game, and the way Dean eyed the board and traced its edge made it clear he had at least some familiarity with it.

Castiel took the chance. “Black or white?” he asked.

Dean snatched his hand back like he’d been caught at something. “Well—”

Castiel raised his eyebrow.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Black, I guess.”

Interesting. Castiel took a seat at the desk behind the white pieces and after a moment, Dean slid into the opposing one. He gestured for Cas to go ahead.

Castiel took a moment to study the board, making a note of what pieces were still available to each of them and possible gambits he could make. He decided on a pawn.

Dean crossed his arms on the desk and leaned in to the game, eyes roving the board. His brow furrowed, and he bit his lip in concentration. It made him look cute. Cas couldn’t help the smile that slowly spread across his face. Maybe sensing it Dean glanced up. He took a sharp breath and glanced back down again, but his cheeks pinkened. A couple seconds later he moved a knight and slumped back in his chair.

“You know,” said Cas, considering his next play, “I’ve only lived in town for a year, and I can’t say I’ve seen many of the sights. Being without a car, and all.” He lifted his eyes from the board to gauge Dean’s reaction.

“Not that much to see,” said Dean.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Cas, “not if I had a local guide to show me around.”

Dean’s blush deepened. He cleared his throat. “Depends on what you like to do for fun, I guess.”

“I…” Shit. What _did_ he do for fun? Up until the start of the school year he’d picked up shifts at a gas station in his free time, though now that was taken up by student teaching. Before he’d been in grad school, while still an accountant at a big firm, most people wanted to go to upscale bars or strip clubs or expensive restaurants that thought a spoonful of foam made a meal, and though he’d tried to fit in, none of really interested him. They exchanged a couple moves while he thought. “This,” he settled on.

“This,” said Dean, twirling a finger to indicate the room, “is your job. How about something not math-related?”

“I bet cars are a passion of yours,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but I do other things, like playing video games with my brother, or watching movies, going drinking with my friends.”

Well, Cas might not sprint anymore, but he did try to keep up some of his interval training. “I go running.”

“Running? Yeesh,” said Dean.

“Not for you?”

“Definitely not,” he scoffed. “Look, Cas…you seem like a nice guy but I’m not actually in the market right now anyway. I mean, don’t get me wrong, if Batman or Wonder Woman walked through the door right now I’d be panting at their feet. But since they’re not.” He shrugged. “Besides, it would never work between us. I’d never settle for someone who didn’t have a cool ride.”

“Just…someone who has a nice vehicle?” Cas said dubiously.

“Lots of people have nice vehicles, Cas,” said Dean. “I want someone with a _cool ride_. Batmobile. Invisible plane. You get the idea.”

Except that Castiel didn’t quite believe him. That handshake last week had been real, and those blushes had been real. It’s just that somewhere along the line Cas had lost him. But he nodded in agreement like he understood. He got the underlying point anyway, that the answer to the unspoken chemistry between them was no. Maybe if they kept seeing each other around they’d eventually forget all this and become easy acquaintances instead, like he was with his classmates at school. That was better than nothing.

He’d given Castiel lots to think about, at any rate. Wasn’t the whole point of his quitting his job and studying to be a teacher supposed to be about figuring himself out? To shake off the layers of automaton duty in the family business? Find out who he really was underneath? Maybe he did need to find a hobby. Google what other people did in this town on a given night.

“Yes!” A chorus of cheers and aww’s came from the center of the classroom. Kevin Tran was sitting with his arms up in victory; the tournament must be over.

“Rematch next week,” said Sam, and a couple of the kids agreed. Sam hefted his bag onto his shoulder, though the other students lingered to chat. “Geez, Dean, did you have to come in?”

“Geez, Sam, you notice what time it is?” he retorted, not bothering to look up from the chessboard.

Sam shook his bangs out of his eyes and looked at the clock hanging above the whiteboard. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Then Dean moved his queen and grinned at Castiel. “Checkmate. Well,” he slapped his hands on the desk and stood up. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Cas.” In another moment, the brothers were out the door and bickering down the hallway.

Castiel blinked at his king, very thoroughly in check. “He said no,” Cas reminded himself, and got up to clean the room.

***

Dean didn’t allow himself a lot these days. Between working full time at the yard, picking up weekend and late night hours at the diner, he didn’t have a lot of time to think. But that was alright in his book. Thinking never got him anywhere.

He’s had a lot of work to do anyway to make up for the years he’d spent away after Mary and John Winchester had died, and he’d dropped out of high school. First priority had been making enough money to rent an apartment for him and Sam, so they weren’t a drain on the Singers’ resources anymore. He was there for his brother now, driving him places when he needed a ride, playing video games, spending time with him. Trying to set a good example.

For the Singers, he’d been doing a little research on the down low. It was becoming apparent that they wouldn’t survive very far into the future if they didn’t get better at all the computer stuff that was showing up in cars these days. And even if they concentrated on the classic stuff, not everybody trusted word of mouth. They’d need a certificate or two on the wall, or on a website, to draw people in. It was a long shot, but if he somehow were to finagle himself a passing grade on his GED, he could maybe take a couple classes and get the training they needed. So he studied in secret. He didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up in case he failed.

His job at Rufus’s diner was just for the extra cash to keep him and his constantly growing brother afloat, but Rufus was an old family friend and the burgers were great and the flirting to get good tips didn’t hurt, either. He liked flirting, but always found himself failing at it these days, outside the diner. The diner was safe. Few people expected anything out of his flirtation, and if a guy or gal did leave him a number, it went into the trash and that was that.

So between looking after his brother, his jobs, his studying, and utter lack of game, his only real outlet was Thursdays at Harvelle Bowl.

Harvelle’s was always hopping on a Thursday. The discount on games was a big draw for pretty much everybody who wasn’t old enough to drink, and everyone who wanted to do an activity a little more involved than drinking (though you could do that too). The building was big; there were twenty bowling lanes expertly waxed, but also a bar that served beer and hot food, a few pool tables, and even a small arcade kept up by longtime employee Ash. The carpet was exactly the kind of crazy multicolored abstract design unique to bowling alleys and charter buses. Several years ago the Harvelles had rounded a group of regulars together to repaint the walls above the pin deck and either side of the lanes, swirling swathes of blues and purples and the best part: blacklight paint that glowed whenever they turned on the special lighting. Many of the house balls glowed in the dark as well, giving the illusion of bowling in the future, or at least in a galaxy far, far away. Birthday parties, all sorts of special occasions they would do this—and every Thursday night.

Dean and Sam had spent a good portion of their childhoods hanging out here whenever their parents were working and unable to watch them. Once Dean was in high school, it was a cheap place to hang out that didn’t consider them hooligans (they knew better than to cross Ellen). After they’d all graduated (or dropped out, in Dean’s case), they’d kept up the habit because, well, it was still cheap, they were busy and it was an excuse to see each other, but also…they loved it. They had their own lane, the one farthest from the front door so there’s less traffic to bother them. You can’t _not_ get pretty good after bowling as many years as they had, and they got pretty competitive. Sam, once he was old enough to gather a gaggle of his own friends around him, had taken over the next lane.

Which is why, when he walked in to a very busy Harvelle Bowl Dean almost missed his friends entirely. He was already intent on dodging strangers in the darkness, amid the blasting classic rock and the vibrant glowing stars when a whole mess of people yelled, “DEAN,”—and not just his friends. He whirled around to find Victor, Charlie, and Billie holding down the first lane, and at the scoring station that they shared with the second lane were Donna, Jody, and the Singers. He opened his arms as he backtracked. “What gives?”

“Nice to see you too,” grumbled Bobby.

“No offense, but…”

“Sorry, Dean,” said Charlie. She worked from home doing arcane computer stuff all day, so she usually was able to get to the alley before the rush and save their lane. “There was a raid and I lost track of time. Hug?” Or, you know, playing games. Dean rolled his eyes but accepted the hug, dropping his chin on top her of head. When she pulled away she punched him in the arm. “First round on me as an apology?”

“Sounds good,” said Dean. She hurried off to buy a couple pitchers of beer from the bar.

Donna rounded the island of chairs to get her own hug. “We noticed you weren’t here yet, so we saved you a spot,” she said.

He loved his honorary aunt and uncle and all their friends like Jody and Donna, but this was supposed to be his time to let loose outside their watchful eye. But still, he had manners. “Thanks guys.”

“Don’t mention it!” said Donna. After a hearty squeeze from her he got a friendly backslap from Jody and then Karen came in for her own hug.

“I just saw you like, two hours ago,” Dean protested. He was glad the dark bowling alley hid his blush.

“Don’t care,” said Karen cheerfully, giving him a kiss on the cheek for good measure.

Dean’s friends laughed. “Where’s my kiss, Dean?” teased Victor.

“You offering?” he shot back. Dean shrugged out of his leather jacket and added it to the pile of his friends’ jackets.

“I mean, it has been a while for you, and I’m a generous man.”

“What are you talking about?” No one had started the game yet, but his friends had at least done one thing and picked up balls for everyone. Since they’d been playing here for so long they knew all each other’s favorites. He saw one in particular that he liked waiting, that was several shades of blue in normal lighting but in the dark, looked black with blue-white swirls. “This for me?”

“Yeah, that’s yours. What I’m talking about,” Victor continued, “is that you’ve had a bit of a dry spell.”

“Tch,” said Dean, adjusting his flannel. “I’m not in a dry spell.”

“Well by my count, the last time you bragged about getting laid was couple months ago when those two bikers came into town—what were their names again?”

“Benny and Andrea,” Dean admitted.

“That’s right,” Vic said, snapping. “We heard about nothing else from you for a week. But since then?” He shrugged.

“Okay, first of all I know you’re a cop but it’s creepy to keep track of what your friends are doing in their personal time,” said Dean. “Second of all, I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I’m busy.”

Victor smirked. “Who’s talking about relationships?”

“You are!”

“Leave him alone, Victor,” Billie drawled from in front of the computer where she was typing in all their names.

“All I’m saying,” Victor went on, “is that a horndog like you—”

Dean spluttered, gesturing toward the second lane where all four of his pseudo-parental figures were avidly listening.

“—might be in need of a little recreation.”

That hit a little too close to home. Yeah, so he maybe used to let off a lot of steam, but sometimes he didn’t think that his friends had realized just how much had changed for him in Milwaukee. Probably Dean’s fault. He hadn’t told them much about it.

Instead of saying as much, and letting the whole truth spill out—he’d even been too chicken to admit to all of them, who’d graduated easily, that he was struggling to study for his damn GED—he put on his old macho bluster that made his dad smile at him like he was part of a club. “Who says I haven’t been recreating?”

“Are you making sure you’re being safe while you’re recreating, Dean?” Jody teased.

Ugh, enough of this. “Is the game set up yet?” Dean asked Billie.

“In a minute. Haven’t thought up a suitable nickname for you.”

“Great.”

“Is that a no on the kiss, then?” asked Victor, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Hell yeah, that’s a no. Not a no against kissing, but I sure as hell ain’t kissing you.”

“Who are we kissing?” asked Charlie brightly, returning with two pitchers. Ellen Harvelle was right behind her with a tray of glasses and a couple orders of fries.

“Lots of people,” answered Dean, grabbing one of the pitchers from her.

“Like who?” she asked.

“I don’t—” He’d been about to say that he didn’t know their names, but checked himself at the last second. Fib as it would have been, he didn’t want the others to think he was actually not bothering to at least learn people’s names. And besides, it wasn’t like the bar scene was so big in town that they never ran into at least one person they knew from high school while they were out; chances are they _would_ know some people if he had been hooking up. Still, he went with, “You don’t know them. Thanks, Ellen,” he added, taking a glass from her. “You seen my moose of a brother around?”

“Ah,” said Billie. “If he’s the moose…” She started typing.

“Sam and his friends are in the arcade.” Ellen set the food down on the table between the lanes. “Stay out of trouble.”

“Always,” smiled Dean.

“I was talking to Donna,” she corrected as she left.

“Who, me?” said Donna, grinning. They all laughed, knowing full well that, bright and cheery as she was, Donna was always ready to throw down if some drunken yahoo gave her a reason.

“I’m still stuck on the kissing,” said Charlie. “Spill.” She poured Victor a glass of beer and handed it to him.

He nodded his thanks and said, “I was just pointing out that it’s been a while since Dean’s enjoyed the single life.”

“I thought you weren’t looking for anything…?” Charlie asked.

“I’m _not_ ,” Dean growled. “I’m enjoying the single life very much, thank you. With lots of people. Free as a bird. I could kiss anyone in this bowling alley if I wanted to.”

“Oh, would you now?” challenged Victor.

“Yeah. Any single man or woman. And I’d be happy to do it.”

“Let’s not start a riot,” said Jody wryly.

“I’m not gonna, I’m just saying.”

“Really?” said Victor. “Why not? Why not the next person who walks in the front door?”

“You want me to kiss the next person who walks in?” asked Dean, puffing up. “What’s in it for me?”

“Guys,” said Charlie.

Billie put a hand on her arm. “No, no. He’s digging his grave, let him lie in it.”

“I’ll buy next time it’s your turn to get the round,” Victor decided.

“You’re on,” said Dean. They clinked glasses and chugged some beer.

“Just when I think they’re all grown up,” said Bobby, shaking his head. He rolled up to the lane to take his turn, as their game was well under way.

Dean valiantly ignored this comment. “Next person starting when?”

“Starting now.”

Dean, Victor, Charlie, and Billie all stood in a line drinking their beer and avidly watched the corner where you turned from the front lobby into the bowling alley proper. It was the busiest night of the week, so there should have been plenty of people in and out, but the wait seemed interminable. They all tensed as a group careened around the corner, but it was just a group of kids running toward the arcade. Then, finally, a single figure appeared. The person was little more than a shadow in the dark before hitting the bright glow in the dark and neon lights of the room, but what the person looked like didn’t matter.

“Hold my beer,” said Dean, shoving it at Victor. “Free kiss coming in!” he announced. Then he marched up to the newcomer, grabbed their face, and planted one straight on their mouth. Their bodies collided a second after, and Dean found himself plastered to a flat, surprisingly solid chest.

“Mmph,” said the man.

Dean rubbed his thumbs a bit against his stubble, holding the kiss a little longer so that no one could say he reneged on his end of the deal. The kiss itself wasn’t particularly good, just lips crushed against teeth with the force Dean had used, but right when he lessened the pressure to pull away, the man took the opportunity to use his lips a little more skillfully, and _wow_. A shock went up his spine. That was nice. More than nice. A little naughty even.

A loud whistle came from behind them. His friends laughed.

Dean jumped back. He cleared his throat and rotated his shoulders. Only then did he look to see who he’d kissed. A man with neatly parted dark hair, a sweater vest complete with tie, eyes closed, only just now fluttering open. “Dean?” he asked.

“Cas?” said Dean. “Oh shit.”

“Wait!” Charlie squealed. “You know this guy?”

“Yeah, um, uh.” He tossed his thumb over his shoulder. “Guys, this is Castiel.” He turned back to Cas, who was still standing where Dean had left him, with a confused tilt to his head. “Cas, uh, the guys.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Real nice, Dean.” She switched her beer to her left hand and held out her right. “I’m Charlie. This is Billie, and that’s Victor. So how do you know my stunningly attractive and yet lacking in manners friend?”

Slowly at first, Castiel took her hand and shook. “I. Yes. Hello. I’m Castiel. Dean and I—Sam—I’m a student teacher at Hunter High.”

“Oh, what are you student teaching?”

“Math. But, Dean, what…?”

Dean had been trying to edge away, but no dice. He forced himself to meet Castiel’s eyes, whose blue was shadowed in the darkness, but no less piercing. He studiously avoided looking at the mouth he’d just kissed. If it had been anyone else, hell if it had been a complete stranger, after a kiss like that there was no way he wouldn’t be laying on the charm and maybe aiming for more. But they’d already established they’d had nothing in common. And he was hardly going to have a one night stand with his brother’s teacher. Student teacher. Whatever. Of all the people in this godforsaken town, why did it have to be Castiel? He probably thought Dean was a fucking nut. “Yeah, about that,” he said. “Just a dare.”

“A dare?”

“Yup. Victor said he’d pay for my round if I kissed the next person who walked in.”

“I see,” said Cas. “So you didn’t know it was me?”

“Nope. Like, what a coincidence, right?” he said, forcing a laugh. Dean noticed then that Cas’s sweater was askew, so he tugged the edges and smoothed out the shoulders, which—oh boy. There were some _shoulders_ under that sweater. He snatched his hands back. “We’re all good, right?”

Cas opened his mouth, but what he was going to say was cut off when Donna exclaimed, “Is that Castiel?”

With one last look at Dean, Castiel stepped around him. “Hello, Ms. Hanscum.”

“No, no, Donna, remember? Singers, Jodes, this is Naomi’s new student teacher…”

As a new round of introductions began, Dean grabbed his beer back from Victor and downed the rest of it in one go.

Not that it helped. Of course his friends invited Cas to join their game. He must have thought they _all_ were fucking nuts when he saw their nicknames flash up on the score screen, and—She gave Dean squirrel? Really?—Billie added Cas in as Newton. “For Calculus,” she winked.

Then when it was Castiel’s turn, he proved his nerdiness to the core by awkwardly rolling a gutterball. On his second attempt, he actually tossed the ball hard onto the wood so that it rang out in a loud thump on the hardwood…and then also became a gutterball.

“Never bowled before, huh?” said Charlie, wincing.

“Um. No,” said Cas.

It was actually kind of funny, but he looked so uncomfortable Dean couldn’t find it within himself to tease. His friends’ conversation was a little politer anyway, given the new guy in their midst and the pseudo-parents to their left. None of this was as relaxing as he’d hoped.

When the game was finally over, Billie had won with Charlie and Victor not far behind, though Dean was a little further (though still a long ways better than Cas’s sad score). “Another one?” Billie asked.

“Nah,” said Dean, who’d downed a couple more beers and a small mountain of fries throughout the rounds. “I’m thinking pool. What you guys think? Pool?”

“Coming for my crown, Dean?” asked Victor.

“You know it,” he said. He grabbed his leather jacket from the pile. “Let’s roll.” He didn’t look behind, assuming they’d follow.

He scanned the busy pool tables and found one that was just vacated. “Yahtzee.” He tossed his jacket on it to claim it and reached for a cue and some chalk. Only then did he see that his friends had brought Castiel along. When they got there he drew Charlie aside.

“This was you.”

“What? Why not?” she asked.

“I feel for the guy, I really do,” said Dean, “but I can’t take the awkward much longer.”

“You’re the awkward, Dean,” she said slyly, “because you’re still thinking about that kiss.”

Dean crossed his arms. “Tch. No I’m not.”

She wiggled her eyebrows over her beer.

Victor racked the balls and grabbed a cue. “You and me, Cas, whaddaya say?” he said.

“Whoa, wait a minute!” said Dean.

“Snooze you lose, Winchester,” said Vic. “Castiel?”

“Yes,” said Cas. He pulled his sweatervest over his head, causing his shirt to ride up. _Happy trail_ , Dean’s brain helpfully supplied. “At least I’ve played this before.”

Victor chuckled. Smug bastard was actually looking forward to taking down the poor guy. He took a moment to line up his shot amid the chatter of the drunken bar patrons, the dinging in the arcade, the clatter of bowling pins. Then he hit the cue ball, breaking the balls with a sharp crack. He called stripes and landed a couple before missing. “Now you,” he said to Cas.

Castiel nodded and rolled up his sleeves. He circled halfway around the table, considering his gameplan. Then he leaned over, slacks pulling tight against an ass that even Charlie looked twice at, and took his shot. The ball went in.

Then another. And another.

Shot after shot he took, all of them successful, leaving the four of them gaping at the most commanding performance at the pool tables they’d seen in a long time. When at last he cleaned house, Cas stood up and smiled at Victor. “How about that crown?” he asked.

“Shit,” said Vic.

“You said no,” Dean reminded himself, and turned on his heel to go buy more beer.


	3. Winter Break(through)

Cas couldn’t stop thinking, as the weather started cooling, that walking across campus during the winter was one thing, but walking to the high school from his campus apartment was going to be another. Cas didn’t have much to spend but he was good at keeping track of his money—perks of a history in accounting—and he could probably buy a used car and still eat more than ramen noodles for the next while.

Of course he didn’t have to buy a car, but his brain kept circling back to cars because it kept circling back to Dean. He’d had no idea what was in store for him a couple weeks ago when he’d googled what to do on a Thursday; he’d run a particularly good math club that day and felt energized enough he was willing to try something new. When Dean had come in for the kiss Cas had thought that maybe Dean had changed his mind. Learning that it was a dare might have hurt more if Dean hadn’t blushed and looked away every time they caught each other’s eyes.

Nevertheless, a car was a possible solution to his dilemma. Upon consulting Donna, it turned out that the couple who he’d met bowling with her at Harvelle’s were, in fact, the owners of her preferred salvage yard and auto repair shop. They also happened to be close family friends of the Winchester boys, and the place where Dean wielded his skills as a mechanic. Cas toyed with the idea of trying to catch Dean the next time he picked up his brother, but discarded the idea. It was probably for the best to give him some space.

The next time he saw Sam he asked him instead, and insisted it be at a time when Dean wasn’t there.

“Yeah, Charlie told me what happened at Harvelle’s,” he’d said. “My brother has his head up his ass a lot, if that helps.”

“He’s taking it harder than I am, honestly,” said Cas. “I just think it would be simpler.”

So they decided since Dean was lending Sam his car for the weekend, that Saturday morning they’d drive out to the yard. Whatever he’d been expecting Sam to roll up in, it was not a large black boat of a car. “This is Dean’s car?” he asked, sliding onto the leather seat.

“Isn’t she great?” said Sam. “He keeps her up himself. His pride and joy.”

“And he lets you drive it?” Cas asked wryly.

“Well, he taught me how,” laughed Sam. “If I do it wrong it’s his fault.”

It was actually fun riding in the car, which is not a sentiment Castiel had often felt, especially when they got to the outskirts of town and sped up a little, a bubbly pop song playing over the rumble of the engine.

If Castiel trusted Sam even a little less, he would have jumped out of the car once Singer Salvage and Auto Repair rose into view. It was far enough outside of town that there was nothing but grass and sky all around it. The property itself was partially fenced in with chainlink and barbed wire, and the drive they pulled into was flanked by an open gate with a visible padlock and chain hanging from one end. The interior proved to be a large yard with grass on one side and dirt on the other; normal-looking cars were parked neatly to one side, while the asphalt drive became gravel and wound through the grass to various buildings, one of which was a garage with a few doors, another of which was a nice two-story house painted blue and trimmed in white.

Sam guided the car along the drive until they ended up at the house. A dog came bounding off the porch, barking. Sam parked and unfolded himself from the car, holding his arms out to the dog. “Hello, Rumsfeld! Hi puppy! How are you? I missed you! Such a good boy!” The dog put his paws up on his shoulders and enthusiastically licked his face.

Castiel followed more slowly, grinning at their interaction. When he rounded the front of the car Rumsfeld walked up to him, so he held out his hand. After sniffing a couple of seconds, apparently finding nothing to be alarmed about, he trotted back over to Sam and rolled over to bare his belly. Sam happily knelt and began rubbing him vigorously, baby talk spilling from his mouth. “Been awhile?” Cas asked.

“Saw him yesterday!” said Sam, smiling up at him for a brief moment before returning his attention to the dog. Suddenly Rumsfeld bolted up and ran toward the far side of the house. Around the corner came Bobby Singer, rolling himself in his wheelchair. In the light of day Castiel saw his beard was graying. “Hey, Bobby!” called Sam, waving.

Side by side, Sam and Castiel met the man in front of the house. “Sam,” he said gruffly. “Castiel. Ready to see some options?”

“Yes sir,” said Cas.

“Bobby works fine,” the man said. “Follow me.” He led them around the house, Rumsfeld often running ahead and then back to run a circle around them, then running ahead again. Once they were on the other side, Castiel was surprised to see that the yard was much, much bigger than it had looked from the main road. There were cars, many of them piled up on top of the other, far enough out that he couldn’t quite tell when it ended. “See, most of these I use for parts, especially when people need some specialty repair. But if you come over here,” said Bobby, beckoning them along, “we’ve got some new additions that their owners sold for scrap, but would be fairly easy to get back up and running. What do you think?”

There were all sorts of cars, most of them coated with dust but otherwise looking whole; there was a large van with a bumper half hanging off, a white and brown pick up with mud covering its lower half, a long, champagne-colored boat of a car that must have been a few decades old. “To be frank,” said Cas, “I know nothing about cars and I’m not sure where to start.”

“Well,” said Bobby, “what do you need it for?”

“Driving around town, mostly.”

“Then most of these will do you alright. Anything that speaks to you? Feel free to look around.”

So Cas did. Passed right by the van—who needed all that space?—and considered the boat. It vaguely reminded him of Dean’s car. “Tell me about this one.”

“Dean would hate that,” Sam piped up from where he had resumed his adoration of Rumsfeld. Guess that shows what I know about cars, Cas thought ruefully.

Bobby raised an eyebrow at Cas. “Does Dean’s opinion matter, here?”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Cas primly. “What can you tell me about it?’

The car was a 1978 Lincoln Continental, apparently. Bobby gave a brief rundown of its history and several previous owners, and the sort of work that needed to be done on it. Castiel asked about the truck next; in grad school everyone seemed to be moving and needing help with furniture. It might be practical. Then Cas walked up to a blue four-door hatchback to hear about that. By then Bobby was onto him, though. “You just going in order? Gonna ask about every car on the lot?”

“Er,” said Cas.

“Is there any of them you like the look of?”

He scanned the rows. “They’re…cars,” sighed Cas, helplessly.

“Try imagining yourself behind the wheel. Hell, go on ahead and sit in them, if you like.”

It was practical advice, Castiel figured, for something he was spending a decent amount of cash on, so he went for the Continental first. The door creaked and felt heavy to open—hopefully it just needed some grease—but the seat looked in decent shape. He sat down and placed his hands 10 and 2 on the wheel. He waited to feel something.

“Well?” asked Bobby. “Can you imagine yourself driving it?”

“I mean, yes,” said Cas. “But I could see myself driving lots of these cars.”

Sam, who’d come up to look, but is hands on his hips. “You look like a pimp.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. Cas sighed.

After that Bobby encouraged him to just walk around past the first row and see what else there was. He would tell him make and model if asked, but refused to give another history until Castiel had picked his top five. Sam, on the other hand, kept up a running commentary of the sorts of people who drove each car and, now and then, things that Dean had said about them. Cas did his best to drown him out; he wasn’t interested in what other people thought, especially Dean. As long as Bobby said the car would serve him well, then that was the best criterion for a purchase.

They turned down the last row of cars that Bobby felt were salvageable, when Castiel saw it. It was tucked between two towers among the forsaken cars, its kickstand sunk so deep into the grass it was an inch away from falling over: a motorcycle. It was smeared with dirt, a wheel deflated, the frame dented, no headlight, a cracked leather seat, but still. There was the barest edge of blue paint on one part of the frame, and that detail, that was all it took. Turned out he felt something after all.

Sam was still talking, something about installing an ipod jack as a joke, when Bobby interrupted him. “Shh, boy,” he said. “Can’t you see he’s fallen in love?”

***

When Castiel was a child, he’d had a blue bicycle. He’d been a small kid but his parents had bought something brand new, top of the line, and probably too much for Castiel to handle. And it had been, at first. No one had stood there with a guiding hand on his back, or helped him to keep the handlebars straight. They’d just plopped a helmet on his head—also too big—and told him to go play.

He’d stayed in the driveway at first, turning endless circles, if he could complete them. Most of the time, the second he moved the handlebars the bike would tip too far, and his toes would scrabble for purchase on the concrete. After countless scrapes and bruises, he could manage a large circle in the driveway, nine times out of ten. Then he took it further. He biked down the block, did his best to brake, hop off, turn his bike around, hop back on and bike back. Then, daringly, he would go to the end of the block and turn by arcing across the street. Then he found the neighborhood bike path, and went a little farther every time, until he found a road block: the asphalt was old and had created a crack in the path that, over the years had been patched and patched and patched until a small hill of new asphalt had been poorly added on top. To adults, and even other kids he went biking past, it was just a bump in the road. But Castiel, whose scrapes and bruises had finally healed, was wary of it. Even when he meant to, he never worked up quite enough speed to get past it, instead hitting it head on and falling to either side, though these days he was an expert at planting his foot and stopping the momentum before he took a complete spill.

One day, he’d had enough. He was sick of being at home where it was boring and no one ever paid attention to him anyway; he wanted to keep exploring, have more adventures. And if he was going to have an adventure, then he was going to have to get past the bump.

He biked until he followed a gentle curve of the path, along the man-made lake in the middle of the neighborhood, and braked his bike. The trees that lined the path either side swayed in the breeze, dipping gently overhead. No one else was around. This had to be the moment. He swallowed. With a deep breath, he lifted his foot from the ground and pushed on the pedal. Then the other foot. He pushed and pushed, pedaling faster than he ever had before, his butt lifting from the seat, he grit his teeth and stared it down. It came toward him, racing closer and closer to his wheels, until it was under them, and Castiel was _over_ the bump, over the path itself, in the air, weightless, FLYING.

Until, a second later, the bike landed. Taken by surprise Castiel crashed the bike and rolled into the grass and up against a tree. He was going to have a heck of a bruise, but he barely felt it. He stared up into the branches, the sunlight pressing through green leaves, and he laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed. He’d been flying.

He _kept_ flying, all that summer, and the next, and the next. When the bump wasn’t enough he ignored the path and the sidewalks altogether, biking through people’s backyards and speeding up and down the rolling hills of the golf course, yelling out anytime he got some decent air. He’d loved it. It was his favorite thing.

And yet, he couldn’t even remember when he’d stopped, or why.

***

“Can’t you see he’s fallen in love?”

Sam was texting on his phone and snorted. “What with the pimpmobile?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Go inside and ask Karen if she needs help making lunch.”

Sam shrugged, still not looking up. “Yes, sir. Come on, Rumsfeld!” Then he loped away in long strides, the dog at his heels.

Cas waited until he was out of sight. “Tell me about it,” he said.

“1967 Honda CL77. Or a 305 Scrambler, if you want. Built for off-roading. Its line was pretty popular back in its day, pretty sure guys like Elvis and Jim Morrison had ‘em. As for this particular bike?” Bobby shook his head. “Don’t know what it’s been through. What I can tell you,” he continued, “is that if you still want a car, you can’t afford that _and_ the bike. It needs more than a paint job to make it street legal, I can tell you that much.” He gave Cas a considering look from under the brim of his cap. “What do you know about bikes?”

“Motorcycles? Absolutely nothing.”

“You’re gonna need to know a little something. We’re not just talking about an oil change, here, it needs real work.”

Castiel was surprised to find himself smiling so hard it almost hurt. “That’s alright. I know how to work.”

Bobby sucked his teeth, thinking. “Karen and I have a lot on our plates. Family owned business, never a day’s vacation. You have a background in math?”

“And accounting,” Cas confirmed, seeing where this is headed. “I can help out on weekends, if you want.”

“My wife and I both hate the books. Much prefer cars. One more thing.” Bobby leaned forward in his chair. “If you’re really serious about this bike, we can guide you along to restoring it. But I’ve seen that look in your eye before. You want the thrill of the ride.”

Was it so obvious? How could Castiel have only just rediscovered it, and Bobby see it so plainly?

“So if we help you, you do it right. We’ll get you set up with protective gear too, the right kind of leather and helmet and whatnot. And you follow the damn rules of the road.”

“Of course,” said Cas. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“A lot of people say that ‘til they get out on the open road. Think nobody owns it but them.” He took off his cap and carded his fingers through his hair, then settled it back on his head. “I bet you’ve wondered where Sam and Dean’s parents are. Do you know what one of the biggest causes of death is here once you’re outside of city limits?” Cas shook his head. “People blowing through stop signs in rural intersections. One drunken yahoo in a truck and a couple of my best friends are dead.”

“I’m sorry,” said Castiel.

“I don’t want your ‘sorry’,” said Bobby. “You hang out with my boys, you ever drive them around in whatever car you pick, you ever let them ride on the back of this bike, you follow the rules of the road. Hear me?”

Cas nodded. “I promise.”

“Then pick a car so we can have a deal.”

Cas tilted his head, considering. “Which one has the best gas mileage?”

***

Castiel was pretty happy with his blue Ford Fiesta hatchback. It was nice not to have to fight the biting, endless wind of the Midwest and as a bonus, he could venture out and find new haunts. One night when he was driving around trying to find a likely coffee shop he instead stumbled upon a 24-hour diner.

He liked it immediately when he walked inside, the walls covered in kitsch and the smell of greasy food making his stomach grumble. He found a small two-person table, and to his delight there were already white saucers with white mugs upturned on them, waiting to be flipped around and filled with coffee.

What—or that is, who—he hadn’t expected was Dean.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” he said.

“Yeah, well,” Dean answered defensively, pouring his coffee from a nearly full pot, “gotta pay the bills.” He gave Cas a quick once over. “What’s with that trenchcoat? You look like an accountant.”

“I was an accountant,” said Cas, deadpan.

Dean froze. “No shit?”

“No shit,” said Cas.

Dean laughed, and suddenly the tension between them was gone.

“What’s good?” Castiel asked, indicating the menu.

“Everything,” said Dean promptly. “But the burgers?” He did a chef’s kiss.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger, everything on it.”

Dean wagged his finger. “My kind of order, Cas,” he said, heading back to the kitchen, “my kind of order.”

The coffee was surprisingly strong, just right to keep Cas going with his grading and homework. The burger was as good as Dean claimed. Cas was hooked.

At least once a week he treated himself at the diner. Dean wasn’t always working when he came in, but he always made an effort to say hi. Cas liked that Dean’s smiles were easier around him, and he also liked that Dean’s friends sometimes came in on the nights Dean was working and said hi to him too—even sat with him to chat over breakfast skillets or pie.

But the thing that Cas really looked forward to when the school week was over was his new, very old bike.

Every Saturday morning, and Sundays if he could swing it, he stopped by to help get the Singers’ accounts in order and then work on his project. He did as he’d promised, learned what he could—even found a manual for it online and read it cover to cover, to the their bemusement. They helped him source parts, answered all his questions, but always Castiel insisted that he was the one holding the tool, turning the nuts and bolts.

The more he learned, the more he got to know his bike, the more opinions he had. He wanted a classic look, and took off all the chrome to stick with the plain metal. He chose black for the new leather of the seat. Bought his own tools to keep in the little tool roll holder tucked in the right side of the frame, on the off chance he ever took a road trip with it.

Then on the day he kicked the engine and it turned over, sending a rumble through the little back shed he’d been doing his work in, he’d never felt more accomplished in his life. The Singers insisted he stay for dinner, and over chicken and mashed potatoes Castiel rhapsodized about the design he envisioned for the paint: a black base covered in blue white fire, filled with stars and planets and fractals upon fractals, all the beauty and imagination of the mathematics of the universe that his family had neither seen nor understood. Together, the three of them made it happen.

Too bad the whole state was buried in a foot of snow at the time. Cas had completed his bike, but wouldn’t get to ride it for months.

***

Even before Dean and Sam were all alone in the world, they had other people looking out for them where they could. Maybe Ellen Harvelle gave them larger helpings of fries or wings than was standard when the scrounged change together during half-price appetizer specials, and maybe Sheriff Jody Mills looked the other way once too many times when Dean was caught stealing bread and peanut butter to make sandwiches for himself and Sam. The Singers, of course, had been the first; childless, they were more understanding than most bosses when parents brought their kids with them to work—or, as happened later, simply dropped them off. In this fashion they had created a galaxy around them, like the boys were some great celestial body pulling people into their gravity and whirling around them in chaotic harmony. How were they to know that they’d brought new life to a failing bowling alley when other young folk saw the cool rebel kids make it their hang out, assuring regulars for another generation? How were they to know that they inspired Jody to start fostering troubled teens? How were they to know that they’d brought life to a complicated marriage that was stuck in a doldrums so endless that husband and wife despaired of ever jumpstarting it again, despite their love?

How were they to know that, by their mere presence, they would pull a young man, unknowingly drowning in a sea of loneliness, out of his anguish and inexorably into their galaxy of people?

This was how, after the Singers had found out that Castiel had spent Thanksgiving alone in his apartment, they called and invited him to stay with them over the school’s winter break.

The Winchesters, of course, they didn’t need to call; the boys may not officially live with them at the yard anymore, and the twin beds in one of the spare rooms had no labels, but they knew exactly who they belonged to.

***

The day Hunter High let out for break, Dean picked Sam up straightway from school and took him back home to pack. Grown up as Dean was, as teenage-aloof as Sam was, they were both giddy as kids as they packed their duffels for a couple weeks’ stay. It had become a tradition, over the last few years, that they’d stay with the Singers during the holidays. No tiny shoebox apartment with their measly gas station tree; Singer Salvage and Auto Repair turned into a winter wonderland. The house, the garage, and all the outbuildings had multicolored lights strung neatly along every eave and window. There were a couple evergreens between the buildings, all with their own lights that glowed with special magic, nestled in the snow-covered bows, newly heavy after a recent snowstorm. There was one elm, bare-branched, that stood next to the house, and instead of wrapping lights around each leafless twig, instead the Singers had hung white-light snowflakes which dripped down over white-light deer, some standing, some leaping, others bent to find something to munch on in the snow.

Even though the brothers had seen it before, even helped to set some of it up, they both grinned as Dean pulled into the drive under the garland-draped gate. They were first to arrive, it seemed, so they got to park in a cushy spot near the house. Sam hopped out and grabbed his back from the backseat right away, but Dean lingered. He’d given his baby a nice wax and shine the day before, even though he knew the salt on the roads would mess her up again in no time; it was his gift to her this season for her love throughout the years and she looked absolutely stunning with lights mirrored off her spotless hood.

“Come on, Dean!” shouted Sam, bounding up the steps to the front porch. The door was already opening to reveal golden light and a barking Rumsfeld. Dean hurried, knowing what he’d find inside: a house filled to bursting with sparkling decorations, good food, and even better company.

***

The next morning Dean woke up to his phone’s alarm. “Ugh,” he groaned. Even though it wasn’t yet the holiday, the day Sam and Dean ‘moved in’ had always felt like a special occasion, and Karen and Bobby cooked like it. Maybe Dean shouldn’t have drunk all that eggnog, or eaten that last piece of pie. He fumbled for the sleep button and his phone quieted down. It was six am but still pitch black outside, it being the middle of winter, and it didn’t take much to have him drifting off back to sleep…

_It was the HEAT OF THE MOMENT!_

“Come ON, Dean!” shouted Sam, putting his pillow over his head. “Asia? Fucking Asia? Really?”

“’Sa classic, Sammy,” Dean mumbled, pulling his covers over his head.

“Shut it off!”

“One more minute…”

“But it’s my first day off from school,” Sam whined, muffled but nevertheless piercing.

“Whatever, bitch,” said Dean. “Some of us have work.” Still, he sleepily poked a hand out of his cocoon into the cold air and brought his phone into the warmth. Squinting at the harsh light, he poked two or three times before it shut off. He flopped onto his back. “Ugh,” he groaned again, but there was no sympathy from Sammy. A small snore signaled the opening salvo of his renewed campaign into the Land of Nod.

He stumbled to the door and out into the hallway. The scent of coffee wafting from downstairs brought a sleepy smile to his face; the Singers usually got up around five on work days, which meant breakfast would be ready and waiting when he went downstairs to get some extra studying in before the garage opened. He took a quick shower, changed into whatever jeans and shirt were closest to hand, and looked around for his bag with the secret GED study guides. He knew he’d packed them, but where were they? He and Sam had been haphazard about unpacking the night before, too eager for hanging out in the kitchen, smelling the wonderful smells as they waited for dinner to be ready. That’s right—they’d eaten before anything else. Was the bag still down there?

Closing the door to their room behind him, Dean made his way toward the stairs. “Bobby? Karen?”

“Yes?” floated up Karen’s voice.

“You seen my small bag?” Dean called as he clomped down the steps.

“In the kitchen!”

“Yahtzee,” Dean said to himself as he hopped down the last two steps and rounded the corner into the kitchen. Sure enough, there it was, hanging off the edge of the counter next to the fridge. He beelined for it.

“Hello, Dean.”

With a _very manly_ yelp of surprised Dean jumped. The bag fell open and scattered his papers all over the kitchen floor. For a single moment of horror, Dean stared at Castiel, of all people, whose hands were wrapped around a mug and whose blue eyes were just as wide and shocked. The moment passed; the next instant they were both moving, scrambling to gather all the papers, Castiel insisting he was very sorry, Dean telling him don’t worry, please don’t worry about it—

Slowly, they both stood back up. A bit sheepish, Cas handed Dean his pile. Dean couldn’t help but notice how large and tan his hands looked. Scanning up his forearms to his t-shirt—my god, had Dean ever seen him in a t-shirt?—a v-neck, at that, plain white, and his shock of dark hair standing up every which way—

Dean cleared his throat. Castiel blinked.

Bobby and Karen chuckled into their coffee mugs.

Cas seemed to come back to himself, a slight blush blooming in his cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Shall I pour you some coffee?”

“I, I can get it,” Dean managed. “I live here. I mean—”

“Oh! Oh no, of course I didn’t mean—right.” Hastily he sat back down at the kitchen table, across from Bobby.

“Right,” Dean echoed. Shoving his papers back into his bag, he shuffled over to the coffee pot. Karen had clearly already laid out the mugs, all of the holiday- or winter-themed. He picked one with a gingerbread man speeding around the lip. After filling it to the brim, he cautiously sat down at the table across from Karen, next to Cas. He dropped his bag on the floor near his feet. “Um. Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” smiled Bobby.

“Good morning,” smiled Karen.

Dean narrowed his eyes at their wicked smiles, their knowing looks. “ _You_ have a—a good morning. Damnit,” he added into his cup, taking a hot, fortifying sip.

“I went and picked Castiel up a little while ago,” said Bobby, offering him a bit of reprieve. “He’ll be staying with us over the holidays, too. Just wanted to get him here before the rush, you know how the garage is around the holidays.”

“I don’t mean to intrude,” said Cas. “I wasn’t aware I’d not be the only guest.”

“Must have forgot to mention,” said Bobby, sounding supremely unconcerned.

“No it’s fine,” said Dean. “I just, I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” asked Karen sweetly. “Anyway, I can whip up a quick batch of pancakes for breakfast. What do you boys say?”

“I’d say yes, Cas,” Dean advised. “Karen is the best baker this side of the Mississippi. Hell, both sides, probably.”

“Flatterer,” said Karen, giving him a light swat with the freshly delivered newspaper, not yet unrolled.

Cas gave a tentative smile. “I’d like that.” Then he asked, “Are you studying something?”

“Don’t know what you mean,” he said. Please, please let Cas not have realized what they were for. It was bad enough knowing he’d gone to an ivy league school, or waiting on him at the diner while he was having conversations with Billie. She was getting her masters in metaphysics, and he once overheard them talk for an hour about math being the matrix code for reality or something. He could not find out that Dean was trying, and mostly failing, to get his GED.

Thankfully Cas didn’t push. “Your car looked very nice this morning,” he said. “Did you wax her recently?”

Dean sighed in relief. Now here was a subject he knew a lot about.

***

Even a few days ago Castiel couldn’t have imagine the scene he was in now. He’d always held that family holidays in media were some kind of sweet fantasy that people craved but never really achieved. And sure, the booze was flowing pretty freely and _Die Hard_ didn’t seem quite the usual thing, but he couldn’t even recall the last time he’d laughed so much. Or been hugged by so many people, especially by some who barely knew him. It was nothing like the holidays he remembered back home—if his parents even were home instead of some ski resort. Everyone here was so welcoming and kind and suddenly Castiel couldn’t stand it. The movie coming to an end leant the perfect excuse; everyone stood up to stretch or get snacks or go to the bathroom and it was easy enough to pick his way through the bowls and glasses and pillows scattered across the floor, and head out back.

The sun had long since set, the snow suddenly appearing out of the darkness to drift the lights pooling on the edge of the back porch. The cold air slid easily through his sweater, nipping his ears and nose, but he wasn’t planning to stay out long. He crossed his arms and took the steps down to the path that someone had shoveled between the porch and the yard and the shed. The yard was all in shadow, only the first row reflecting a glint of Christmas, but to Cas’s surprise, the shed door was cracked open, the yellow light a slice into the night. He squinted down at the path and saw that there were fresh boot tracks in the newly fallen snow, too big to be Karen’s. Was it a guest? An intruder? Bike in his mind and heart in his throat, he jogged over to the shed and peeked through the crack.

It was Dean. The thought brought instant relief, until he realized that Dean was staring at the tarp over his bike, reaching for it—

Castiel shoved the door fully open, and the creak of the hinges startled Dean into looking. “Cas?”

The wind picked up, slamming them with a wave of cold, and Castiel hastily stepped inside and closed the door behind. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean shuffled a few steps to the side to lean against a table. He brought a half-empty bottle of beer to his lips and sighed after taking a long drink. “So what brings you out here?”

Cas crossed his arms again, examined the snowflakes perched precariously on the fuzz of his sweater. “Could ask the same of you.”

Dean snorted; Castiel looked back up. Dean had a sour smile on his face. “’Cause they’re, I don’t know. Happy.”

It was strange how similarly Cas had justified his escape to himself. But Dean actually belonged in there. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Nah, course not. It’s just…” The heels of his hands sat on the edge of the table, two fingers of one wrapped around the neck of his beer bottle. He hunched in on himself, shoulders rising toward his ears. “They’re happy, but my parents are dead. They’re happy, and I don’t know if my parents would be too, even if they were alive. Because they weren’t often happy, even at the holidays, and I remember that. They’re happy, giving my brother the Christmas I’ve never been able to give him. They’re happy, and I…” He tsked at himself, lifted his beer again. He threw his head back, tipping the bottle nearly to vertical, and Cas watched in helpless fascination as he drank the rest of it down, the bob of his throat, the length of his neck that spilled down to the open buttons of his gray henley which pulled against his chest, revealing the peaks of his nipples.

Castiel dug his fingers hard into his arms and walked the few paces to the table, leaned on it next to Dean, trained his eyes on the closed door instead. When he heard Dean slam the empty bottle back onto the table, he asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

Dean chuckled, a soft exhalation of air that plumed white before dissipating. “You ever live here long enough, Cas, you’ll find out that cold’s just a state of mind.”

“It’s below freezing, Dean.”

“Ah, but it’s above zero.”

Castiel finally looked at him again to give him the full force of his disbelieving eyebrow, and Dean gave him the ghost of his usual grin in response. Cas just couldn’t imagine the others not missing his presence, not looking for that grin every moment, the real thing. “I’m sorry about your parents,” he said. It wasn’t much of a surprise to learn, given that no one really mentioned them. Dean just shrugged, so Cas continued, “I’m not an expert, but…those people, in there. Pretty sure they’re your family, and they want you to be happy, too.”

“And what right do I have to call them family?” asked Dean. Castiel got the impression if he’d been any less drunk, the words would have come out with a lot more vitriol. As it was, the thread of self-hatred in them was easy for Castiel to recognize, if only because he recognized it in himself. “What kind of a, a, son have I been? What kind of brother? I let ‘em down, Cas,” he said, a tremble in his voice.

“I find that difficult to believe,” he answered, because it was true.

“Shows what you know,” Dean scoffed. “They needed me, my _brother_ needed me but I left anyway, they needed me and I was too busy just…I was just fuckin’…”

Castiel let the silence sit until it became clear that Dean had no intention of finishing his thought. It was a little sobering to see Dean so upset, to be introduced to a scar still healing between the family. It did explain a bit, though, how Dean liked to be very involved in his brother’s life, and Sam chafed at it a lot less than other kids his age. Like the bond between them had been stretched to the limit before snapping back together again. The more Castiel learned about Sam and Dean the less he felt he’d ever fully understand them, not when his own sibling relationships were so different. Not when he had left his own family with no intention of ever coming back, at least not in the way they want him to. He could hardly speak to how Sam and the others saw…well, saw whatever it was Dean was beating himself up about. So he chose the obvious point—obvious, but most important. “You came back.”

“I’m trying to,” Dean whispered to the floor.

“Not if you’re hiding out here,” said Cas, almost as quietly.

Dean turned his head to stare him down, eyes making subtle movements like he was searching for something. “What about your family? Why didn’t you go home for break? Aren’t they missing you?”

Castiel had asked himself that very thing a thousand times over the past couple of years, so was unprepared for how the act of voicing it fucking _hurt_. “I don’t know,” he said.

“How can you not know? Don’t you talk to them?”

“No,” Castiel admitted.

As expected, it was a difficult pill for Dean to swallow, his face contorting in confusion, he who cared so deeply for those in his life. “Like, at all?”

Cas let a deep breath out his nose. “Well,” he said, “my brother Gabe sends me memes now and then, but we don’t really, you know…talk.”

“What about your parents? Er, I mean—if they’re not—” Dean backtracked.

“No, no, they’re alive and well,” Castiel assured him. “I assume.”

Dean took a moment to process this. “You have a falling out or something?”

“Or something. Let’s just say…” Cas aimed for a smile. “You’re not the only one who’s disappointed some people.” He shivered and tucked his hands deeper under his arms.

“I find that difficult to believe,” Dean parroted, but it carried little sting. His eyes were large and sad, almost a honey color in the shed’s light. “I can’t imagine a world where someone wouldn’t want to have you for a son. They’re your parents. Whatever got ‘em mad…I bet they’re ready to talk by now.”

Castiel wished that were the case, he really did. The idea that they might spare a thought or two for him during their busy days…that was gratifying. Most of him didn’t think it was true. And the part of him that did was just _angry_. “Maybe I’m not.”

“Don’t understand you, dude,” muttered Dean. “Both my parents could really blow a fuse but if they were here now, I’d…” He shrugged. Then he sniffed a little and took a swipe at his reddening nose with his sleeve before crossing his arms like Cas.

The wind pulled a bit at the door, rattling it in its frame.

“What were they like?” Castiel asked. “Your parents?”

“They were awesome,” said Dean. “They were good to me and Sam, it’s just that they fought a lot, you know, more as time went on. They were just so different. Mom was a country girl, grew up hunting and shooting. Dad was more a city guy, loved cars and going out on the town. But they fell in love over the same things, you know? They loved adventure. And going on road trips and, and greasy diner breakfasts.” Smiling, Dean looked over to see his reaction.

Castiel smiled back. “And their sons.”

Dean’s smile faltered, shrunk into something smaller, almost shy. “Yeah,” he said. “And their sons.” He hummed, then continued, “They’d be so fucking proud of Sam. I mean, first they would not _believe_ how tall he’s gotten, but like, he’s so smart and he’s gonna get into a good school and they’d be so happy, I swear.”

“And how happy they’d be,” said Castiel, “to have a son who could fix their car up for their roads trips and serve them those breakfasts before they headed out, too.”

“Cas,” said Dean, somewhere between a plea and a whine. He rubbed his face with his hands; his fingers were red from the cold. “No one wants a high school dropout for a kid.”

Dropout? “But—Donna—”

“Yeah, I _went_ to high school, but I dropped out. And Donna was the shop teacher, dude, cars are the only thing I’m good for. Now _your_ teacher” —he poked Cas in the bicep— “Ms. Milton, she fucking _hated me_. I was _trouble_. If I hadn’t done her job for her by dropping out, she would’ve failed me in a fucking heartbeat.” It really sucked to think that Dean had been one of those kids Naomi thought just couldn’t be helped, that were sacrificed on the altar for whatever administrative benchmark. Castiel tried to speak up, but Dean kept talking. “But fine. I needed to work anyway. And the Singers don’t need me to graduate ‘cause they know my skills are good but cars are changing, you know? There’s so much _computer stuff_ that I should really be taking classes for so someone can stay on top of it, and like, I want to expand our restorations but no one wants to entrust their classic cars to someone without credentials and fuck if I can get credentials without taking classes but I can’t take classes without even a GED and that’s what I’ve been studying, okay, I need my GED but I keep failing the practice tests over and over and all my friends are getting careers and building their adult lives and I’m just stuck here and I can’t even” —he clutched at his necklace— “How can I, how can my family even want me around when I can’t even do what they need?”

Dean was shaking, and Castiel couldn’t tell whether it was from the cold. He said, “I could—”

“Don’t!” Dean shoved away from the table, hands either side of his head as he took a couple steps. “I don’t want your help.”

Castiel had certainly been learning over the last semester that some kids didn’t want to be helped, like Naomi said, but he still refused to believe that there was nothing he could do. It must mean they just needed a different approach, right? He swallowed. “What about my company?”

A pause. Dean turned around. “Your company?”

“Yes. I’m at the diner a lot anyway. Come sit with me on your breaks. I’ll do my grading or homework and you can do some studying.”

“Yeah? What good would that do?”

Cas shrugged. “Someone to complain to, someone to bounce ideas off of. Kind of like sitting together in the trenches. It helps, I find.”

“Sure,” said Dean. “Sounds legit. Mr. Ivy League sitting with some charity case out of the goodness of his heart.”

“It’s hardly charity,” Castiel snapped. “I gain my own study partner, for one, but I actually like hanging out with you, Dean, in case you haven’t noticed. I like when you make snarky comments when you refill my coffee and I like playing chess with you and I _especially_ like beating you at pool.” To his surprise, Castiel found himself standing and swaying a little. Guess that eggnog had hit him harder than he’d thought. But Dean was just staring with his mouth half open and not saying anything so Cas kept talking. “Besides I didn’t know this was going to be a big family get together and I brought some wine for the Singers when I arrived and I think I’ve figured out what I can do for Sam, and now this is something I can do for you.”

“Well um, uh.” Dean hooked his thumbs in his jean pockets and scuffed a boot on the floor. “What are you doing for Sammy?”

Castiel blinked, recalibrating. “Oh. I’ve been thinking about how we can start up theatre again for the spring semester.”

“Drum up some funding?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of donations. I could keep track of all the financials, of course, though I don’t know how much to get. I did do a little research into what sorts of things theatres need and, where am I supposed to find lumber? Or even someone who could build something out of it?”

Dean sniffed his running nose again, but he had a soft look about him for all that. “I can build some. And you know between Rufus and Jody and Ellen and the Singers they pretty much know everybody who’s anybody in town. They’d know who’d be most open to…” He waved a hand around. “Getting their names in the program for supporting local arts, right?”

Cas felt so light he could burst with it. “Dean. That would be a godsend. All those kids—You’ll really help?”

“Definitely,” said Dean. “But in the meantime, let’s go inside. You’re freezing, and the _Christmas Story_ marathon’s probably started up by now. Can’t have Christmas Eve without that.” He reached out and wrapped his arm around Cas, leading him toward the door.

Castiel leaned into his body heat without shame because, “I really am fucking freezing.”

Dean laughed. “You know I like hanging out with you, too, Cas,” he said. “And I _especially_ like it when you swear.”

_And I like it when you laugh_ , Cas thought as they stepped out into the cold. _And being so close to you. And, and, and._

And Dean didn’t drop his arm from Castiel’s shoulders until they reached the porch.

***

When Castiel did finally bring the idea up to Sam halfway through a grand Christmas brunch, just to see if he thought enough students would be interested, his response was so enthusiastic the whole table started getting involved. Soon his phone was being passed around and people were putting in their numbers and chatting about this hardware store and that and—well, after being a student teacher for a semester he never thought he’d ever see people excited about group work again. Even Dean added his number, though he waited until the subject had changed and Cas was scrolling through and looking at all his new contacts. He snatched it out of Cas’s hand and typed quickly under the table. “Just in case,” he mumbled, and tossed it back.

The gift exchange, when it came, wasn’t as awkward as Castiel had feared. His own family’s Christmas mornings always had an element of oneupmanship or of being inadequate or the fear of getting snubbed and in later years, for Castiel at least, the repeated confirmation that none of them knew him well enough to get him something he actually liked. At the Singers there was squabbling, but not over the gifts; rather there was arguing amongst the younger set about whose turn it was to hand them out. Sam won after a brief wrestling match with his brother. Castiel found he was content to watch the joy in the others’ faces as they opened gift after gift, mostly small things that his family would sneer at, like fuzzy socks and pulpy paperbacks. They each received one big thing: a video game for Sam, expensive car polish for Dean, a high end bottle of booze for Bobby. Then finally Sam announced there was just one more gift to open. “From all of us…for Castiel,” he said with relish.

Cas froze as all eyes turned to him. Sam stood from his spot on the floor next to the tree and walked it over to the corner where he was sitting. It was a cheery-looking present with sparkling green paper and three red bows of various sized slapped on top. Sure enough, there was a tag on it that read his name in all caps. He took it, hesitantly; the box seemed about the size of a generic department store box, and it didn’t weight very much. “You didn’t have to. I wasn’t expecting—”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Just open it, Cas!”

So Cas found a seam, dug his finger under, and ripped. The paper tore easily to reveal a plain white box, and when he ripped the tape on the box and unfolded the tissue paper, there lay his gift: a white shirt with a blue grid pattern that made it look like graph paper, a pair of thick, black-framed glasses hooked in the collar, and in the front pocket…a protector.

“Since you’re gonna actually start teaching math lessons next semester,” said Sam, “we thought you might wanna look the part.” Everyone waited; no one even took a sip of eggnog as they watched for his reaction.

And Castiel…laughed. He laughed and laughed, and everyone joined him. No, this wasn’t a gift he’d ever have asked for, and certainly didn’t need, but a gift that made him laugh, well. He was realizing that was just as good.

Besides, he couldn’t wait to see Naomi’s face when he wore it.


	4. Cool Rider

After an uproarious Christmas it was quiet and lonely in Castiel’s little apartment, but the rest of break moved quickly regardless. He was sending emails back and forth with Naomi about lesson planning and, come the new year, even meeting with her at the school to get ready. It also gave him ample opportunity to bring her his plan for the theatre kids, and ask what kind of permissions they might need from the school. She informed him that all a student club needs is for two faculty members to sign up as advisors. These she promised to find, so all that was left was to wait for the first day of school to ask the kids if they were on board.

When the first day of school did roll around, Castiel was torn between excitement and nerves. He wanted to do well teaching his first lessons, he hoped the kids were happy about his solution for the theatre, and he was almost giddy about wearing his Christmas gift. He layered a brown blazer over it so that when he first arrived in Naomi’s classroom, she didn’t suspect a thing. Instead they greeted each other normally and went over his notes one last time. She settled behind her desk off to the side, and Castiel fussed with the lectern, making sure his copy of the textbook was open to the right page and his notes were within reach.

The first class was Algebra II, mostly sophomores and juniors, who looked about as happy as one might expect coming back from a long break. But the mood was mildly congenial, if a bit sleepy, friends and classmates greeting each other and chatting about their holidays. When the bell finally rang Castiel had to wait a few more interminable minutes while they made announcements on the TV, and then at last…his turn.

He took a deep breath. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” the class mumbled.

“As you may remember, Ms. Milton told you all that I’ll be taking the lead on most lessons for the rest of the year. I’ve been working hard and I think I’m ready. Or,” he held up a finger, “ _almost_ ready.” He saw Naomi stiffen in the corner of his eye, but poured all of his energy into keeping a straight face. He stepped around the lectern, unbuttoning his blazer and pulling the glasses from an inner pocket. Then he shrugged it off, revealing the short sleeves of his graph paper shirt, and of course the pocket protector where he’d gleefully placed some pens. To complete the look, he popped the glasses on his nose and spread his arms. “Now I’m ready.”

The class laughed, and Castiel grinned. Naomi looked horrified, but he had the students’ attention and their good will, and that’s half the battle, right? He was beyond pleased how well it was received, and repeated the joke every class period. The period after lunch hour, when everyone was happy and sated, even clapped. The best, though, was when Sam’s AP Calc class trooped in later that afternoon, and no one laughed louder than Sam himself. His student smiled for the entire hour, and Cas couldn’t help but do the same.

His smile slipped, though, when Naomi stood at the end of the period and caught Sam before he left the room. For a brief moment Castiel was terrified that she’d found out where his costume had come from and was about to bring the hammer down, but she simply said, “It’s short notice, but would you be able to gather the theatre group together after school for a meeting today? You may meet at the theatre doors.”

“Yes!” Sam answered; he shared a look of delight with Cas before rushing out of the room, no doubt to start spreading the word.

Castiel turned to don his jacket one last time. “So you found two teachers to sponsor them?”

Naomi watched him reset, pursing her lips. “Donna was the only one who agreed, initially. It’s not that the others don’t support the idea, but many of them are uninterested in any potential…difficulties among staff.” By which, of course, she meant that the principal could make lives very difficult for anyone publicly defying him. “I can’t blame them. Not everybody has the will to do what needs to be done. Or in my case, the time and theatrical inclination. But now…” She strode back to her desk, pulled out a paper, and signed it. “As my student teacher, you’re an extension of me.” She turned and held out the paper to him. “And since today I witnessed that you do indeed have a flair for the dramatic, I can now look Marv in the eye and insist you’re qualified for the job.”

“But—not that I don’t appreciate—and math club—”

“No buts, Castiel.” She flicked her wrist to snap the paper. Only after he hesitated did she say lowly, “I can protect you more easily than I can protect my colleagues. Do you understand?”

He sighed. “Yes. I’ll try, for their sake.”

“Good. And,” she paused, tracking a couple of students who were arriving for the next class. She settled for saying, “Trust that I know the students a little better than you, and Ms. Hanscum is a bit of a loose cannon. Please make sure to keep everything school appropriate, hm?”

***

After school, Castiel stood fidgeting in front of the theatre doors. Donna had found him after the last class of the day, pressing the theatre keys into his hand, an apology on her lips as she broke the news that he had to take lead with the new club. She was going to help as much as she could, but since she hadn’t planned for this her schedule didn’t allow for her to be there everyday, and Castiel’s did. Which meant that he soon found himself the lone object of several pairs of eyes waiting expectantly for some kind of wisdom.

“Is everyone here?” he asked. He had to start somewhere.

“Most of the usual suspects for the crew,” said Sam. Besides him Castiel recognized a couple of the others from his classes, but the rest were strangers.

“Alright then.” He cleared his throat. Sam smiled at him encouragingly; he surely knew where all this was headed. “Uh, I’m Castiel Novak, Ms. Milton’s student teacher. And I—well, she and Ms. Hanscum have said they are willing to host a theatrical performance and the rehearsals for it as an after-school club, if there’s enough interest.”

Apparently, there was interest. Two of the girls hugged, squealing, and the rest chattered and cheered and in the face of their geeky enthusiasm, Castiel felt slightly more at ease. “Since it’s not a faculty show, do we get to choose what it is?” one of them asked.

“That does bring me to my next point,” Castiel said. “Because we’re not going to receive any funding from the school, I’m afraid we might have a tight budget. I’ve already reached out to some people about donations, but I think one place where we can easily save money is by not paying any performance rights. And, er, correct me if I’m wrong, but research tells me that Shakespeare is the most common thing to choose in such a case.” Cas tilted his head. “Unless one of you is a playwright?”

Marie looked up at him in wonder, eyes shining behind her glasses. “My time has come,” she proclaimed.

“Yes!” gasped Maeve.

“Do you have a show written?” Castiel asked politely.

“Oh, I have a show,” Marie said. “A showman’s show. Bigger than Phantom! Grander than the Met! My masterpiece!” She slapped her hands over her heart. “Supernatural: The Musical.”

Sam opened his mouth, closed it. Thinking a second, he said, “Like the Carver Edlund series?”

“Exactly the Carver Edlund series,” she agreed. “I wrote him asking if I could adapt his work into a musical when I was twelve and he said ‘Sure, you do that.’ I have it in writing.”

“My brother loves those books,” said Sam. “They’re pretty good.”

“Pretty good?!” said Marie. “They’re modern classics!”

Castiel held up a hand before anyone else spoke. “The show’s not going to be run by the school but it’s still going to take place at the school. So I just have to make sure there’s no gratuitous sex or violence in your musical.”

Marie paused, lips shaped in a little _oh_. “Well,” she said, “no...”

That didn’t sound very definitive. “No?” Cas repeated.

She smiled. “No more than Shakespeare.”

Cas looked to Sam for confirmation, since he’d apparently read the books. Sam frowned thoughtfully and shrugged in agreement.

“Supernatural: The Musical it is,” said Castiel. “Let’s get started.” He tossed the keys to Marie, who unlocked the auditorium doors with great relish.

A couple hours later, he didn’t even bother to go home. It had been a long day, and all he could think about was the strong, black coffee at Rufus’s diner. He trudged in, stamping the snow off his shoes, and practically collapsed in the chair at his little table. He’d barely dragged his coat from his shoulders and onto the chair when Dean appeared at his side, grinning gleefully. “No good deed goes unpunished, am I right?”

Cas grunted. “Sam told you.”

“Yep!” he said. Dean looked entirely too amused by the whole thing, but Cas forgave him because he was already turning over the mug on his table and filling it to the brim. “I’ve gotta hear how this went down,” he said. A call of _order up!_ had him backing way, though. “Later,” he said, pointing the coffee pot at him.

When his break did roll around, Dean insisted that if they were going to sit together they needed a big table. Ordinarily Cas would be pleased that Dean was making good on his offer to do their work together, but he had a feeling that this had more to do with Schadenfreude. Nevertheless he stacked his things haphazardly and trailed after him to the back of the diner and a large corner booth.

“There,” said Dean. “Big enough for your textbooks _and_ my burger.” When they settled he rubbed his hands together. “I bet this was all Ms. Milton’s fault.”

Castiel sighed. But he started with how his first day teaching had gone—Dean demanded to see him put on the glasses, fell over on the bench laughing—and how it had led to his inadvertent promotion as head of the theatre club. “So really, it’s partially your fault.”

Dean just winked and chomped happily on his burger.

A little later he rummaged in the bag and pulled out a slim volume. A ripped piece of notebook paper stuck out as a bookmark in the middle of it; Dean turned to it and started reading.

“Titus Andronicus?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah. I figured I need to start reading more from the, um—” He peeked over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening. “—recommended list for the tests, you know? Lots of Shakespeare. When I was trying to find out which one would be the least dull, I read on a forum somewhere that there was more gore in this than All Saints’ Day and let me tell you, it has lived up to the hype.”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “All Saints’ Day?”

“You know, the Hatchet Man movies,” said Dean. Then, putting on a gruff voice, he went, “Time to slice and dice!”

Cas’s pencil slipped from his hand. He could connect the dots. “Gorier…than a horror movie,” he said slowly. “Shakespeare.”

“And how,” said Dean.

“I’ve made a grave mistake.”

“Hm?” Dean turned a page.

“I told them the play couldn’t have sex or violence and they said no more than Shakespeare!” Cas dropped his forehead onto the table. “Naomi’s going to kill me.”

“Of course there’s sex and violence, dude, it’s Supernatural,” said Dean, unhelpfully. Cas lifted his head and glared. “Alright, alright!” Dean laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. He put down his book and folded his hands, leaning forward. “How about this? I’ve got some basic construction chops. On the days Donna can’t be around, I’ll come in and help you out. I’m already allowed as a volunteer in the school since Donna has me assist in auto shop once in a while.”

“You’d do that?” said Cas. He could already feel the weight lifting from his shoulders. “Even though you have two jobs?”

“Pssh,” said Dean. “Carver Edlund and more time with my brother? Sounds awesome to me.”

“Thank you, Dean. I mean it. _Thank you_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Now be quiet. I’m reading.”

***

Dean was always busy, but somehow between his two jobs and his studying he kept his promise. On days he didn’t have to be at the diner until later, he swung by the school after he was done at the garage and helped out with the musical. The script was a travesty on Carver Edlund’s work, in his opinion, but Sam was really into it and the rest of the kids seemed happy that they were doing anything at all. On his first day there, he saw that Cas had been roped into actually _participating_ with rehearsals, and he laughed at the pleading look he gave him from behind the piano while the kids walked through a song. But Dean was definitely not going to fall for that; he headed to the backstage area where Donna was supervising the set building and made himself at home.

He helped Donna plan what they were going to build, and how; he ran errands to pick up materials in her truck; he even went with her to a few meetings where she asked for money or goods, and watched more than one hardhearted person crumble in the face of her sunny smile. All that meant, though, that Cas had to be there all the time, and Dean could almost swear that his hair was getting longer and wilder with shock each time he understood the depth of Marie’s crazy went down one more layer.

“Passion, Dean,” Cas sighed when he teased him about it. “Her passion.”

Dean laughed past the fries in his mouth. He’d started joining Cas on his break almost every time he was at the diner. There were fewer and fewer reasons not to, since they ended up discussing and planning for the musical more often that not. The students could run themselves for the most part, but they were invested in making sure the kids had as few roadblocks as possible. But it was Friday, and they were trying to enjoy the reprieve. They’d both wolfed down burgers for dinner, and now Cas was grading quizzes and demolishing fries one by one in his mouth like a woodchipper. Dean was dousing his in ketchup and delaying the inevitable as long as he could. He’d found time to run into the library the day before, photocopying lessons and practice tests out of yet another GED book. He’d been working through story problems as they ate, but couldn’t bring himself to check his answers. Not yet.

The fries were dwindling. Dean swirled one of them around his plate, drawing spirals in the ketchup. The pen Cas was using to grade was just as red. Dean watched the marks sprout bright on page after page, as he traced problem after problem with his pen, pressing it down to check or circle or write percentage grades. When he was done with each sheet, he flipped it into his done pile and started on the next. The whole process was efficient, like a machine.

“What are you working on?” said Cas.

Dean blinked and lifted his gaze from the quizzes to find Cas looking at him. “Uh, not much,” he said. Like he was going to tell a math teacher on a grading spree that he was sucking at math that very moment, yeah right. “Carry on.”

Cas raised an eyebrow but bent his head back to work. Reluctantly Dean flipped through his pages to find the answer key and go through the practice set. He was disappointed, but not surprised to find that he’d gotten three right out of ten. _Three_ out of _ten_. He might suck at math, but even he knew that was nowhere near a passing grade. In frustration he crumpled up his work and threw it onto the middle of the curved corner booth were sharing. A headache was definitely coming on. He pinched his nose.

“Algebraic story problems.”

Dean whipped his head up. Of course, shit. Cas had picked up the paper and spread it flat on the formica. Dean tried to snatch it back, but Cas was too quick.

“You’re plugging the variables into the wrong spots,” he said.

“Well no shit, Sherlock,” Dean grumbled. “I suck at story problems, big whoop.”

“So do a lot of people, before they get the hang of it,” said Cas. When he was done reading the problems, he hit Dean with the full force of his big blues. “I know a trick you might not have tried before, if you’re willing.”

Holy crap, that puppy look could rival Sam’s. The damage was done, anyway. He’d already seen the work. “Fine. Tell me.”

Cas lit up all excited, and it was too fucking cute. He scooted along the bench to sit closer to Dean, carelessly shoving his own work out of the way. “I learned this method from my teacher back when I was in high school,” he said. “He called it the ‘Man in the Box,’ which I’m pretty sure was a reference to something, because he used to say that he was the man in the box, but kind of singing it.” Dean could feel himself grinning, and Cas caught him at it. “You recognize it, don’t you?”

“Hell yeah, I recognize it. It’s an Alice in Chains song, dude.” He dug in his pocket and got out his phone. This was already the best math lesson he’d ever had. “I know you’ve probably heard it. Gimme a sec.” He hopped onto youtube and brought up the first hit for the song, which happened to be the music video. The heavy riff was tinny through the speakers, but still unmistakable. “Here we go. Eh? Eh?”

Dean watched Cas as he listened, head cocked to the side like a bird’s. But then, too late, Dean realized that the music video would have the radio edit and Layne Staley was already singing—

_I’m the man in the box_   
_Buried in my pit_   
_Won’t you come and save me?_

His hand shot out and fumbled with the phone, shutting it off. “Um,” he said, trying to cover his reaction, “that’s the reference.”

Cas sat back and regarded Dean for a moment. _Please don_ _’t ask, please don’t ask, just don’t fucking ask_. Castiel didn’t ask. He just said, “I do recognize it; I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere. I’ll have to think about it.” Then he grabbed a pencil and twirled it in his fingers. “Ready?”

For what? Oh. “Sure.” Castiel started drawing, and Dean leaned in to watch. He drew a rectangle and divided it into six boxes. Then, using the first problem on the practice sheet, he explained how to ‘put the man in the box,’ dedicated half the squares to one of the characters in the problem, and the other half to the second. To Dean’s surprise it was actually starting to make sense, so he did his best to push memories of the Pit aside. He had work to do.

***

Castiel went home that night high off his success. On his last practice set before going back to work, Dean had gotten eight out of ten of the problems right. From three to eight!

Without bothering to even take his coat off he dropped his bags on the floor and tipped himself back onto his bed. He closed his eyes as he toed his shoes off, remembering the almost boyish look of pleasure on Dean’s face when he’d seen the 80% Cas had jokingly marked in red at the top. Castiel so often felt like he was stumbling through his lesson plans but right now…maybe he wouldn’t make such a bad teacher after all. He wished he could track down his old high school teacher to thank him for the trick. Speaking of—

He looked up the song again on his phone, then set it onto his chest as it started to play. It took two iterations of the chorus for Cas to blink his eyes back open in the dark. It must have been when he was a kid when he’d heard it before, back when his siblings were young enough to be as stuck at home as he’d been, sitting in their rooms and listening to music. When the song was over, he sat up and let youtube autoplay as he got up and started shrugging out of his clothes. He didn’t recognize the next two songs the site cycled through, but when it went to a 90s compilation next, he stopped in his tracks. His sense memory for “Man in the Box” had been very vague, but there was nothing vague about hearing “Barbie Girl” for the first time in well over a decade.

The music slammed him back into his childhood home, specifically the floor of Gabe’s room. He’d had a habit of hiding out in there—how could Castiel have forgotten?—and Gabriel had never much cared, as long as he stayed quiet and minded his business. Castiel never complained, or tattled about what he overheard Gabe saying or planning on the phone as he talked to friends for hours. Gabriel would always have music running on his stereo, and there was a whole month he blasted nothing but Aqua just to piss off Michael, who hated it. It was strange; there must have been many afternoons, but the song conjured up a particular one because he could see Gabe perfectly, his purple striped socks, the green lollipop he took out of his mouth as he laughed hard at something a friend said on the phone, and the wink he’d thrown at Cas when he caught him looking.

Castiel stood still as the song played, shirt balled up in his hands, moved despite its ridiculousness. He had no idea that that memory had been living inside him still, all this time. He wanted to hold on to it, cradle it. Adored the image of Gabriel as he’d been, before he’d grown older and ever more bitter. Of how safe and wanted he’d felt, being allowed to sit at the feet of one of the brothers he’d worshiped so. It was like his old bicycle all over again; like the whole of this town was chipping at the shells and shields he’d grown around himself in the last few years, digging deep to find the pieces of Castiel that actually made him _him_.

When the song was over, he stopped the video. Cas wanted to remember this time in his life just like that crystalline afternoon, these moments at Hunter High and Singer Salvage, at Rufus’s Diner with Dean. He had such big plans for the weekend, too: the snow was almost completely melted and his motorcycle was finally ready to be taken out for a spin. If he chose a band or an album and listened to it over and over, immersed himself in it for the next while, these times and those songs would be tied together forever. And Cas knew exactly what he was going to pick.

***

Saturday morning, Castiel stopped at the garage office only long enough to let the Singers know he was on the property before he was gone again, Karen’s cheery “Good luck!” and Bobby’s grumbly “Don’t be an idjit!” barely escaping out the door behind him. They’d already made him promise not to take his bike off the property until they were sure he’d gotten the hang of it, but Cas didn’t mind. The scrapyard had loomed vast and intimidating at first, though the longer Castiel hung out there the more he understood the ways in which everything got shifted around, why some cars did or didn’t get compacted, all the open space that shifted around within it. Nothing much moves over the winter, so he knew just where there was enough open field for Castiel to have some fun.

He strode past the house and around toward the shed. He shivered—a bit from excitement, a bit from the cold, early spring wind. He was a bit underdressed in a t-shirt and jeans, but he was under no illusions that he wouldn’t be taking a few dives on his first day out and wasn’t interested in a dry-cleaning bill. Between the gusts the sun felt warm enough, though, and the only patches of snow stubbornly clinging on were the once huge drifts built up from shoveling and snowblowing, storm after storm. The area around the shed was clear, if a little damp, and in no time Cas had the door unlocked and was pulling the tarp off his bike at last.

It should have been anticlimactic; it looked just as he remembered, sat just where he’d left it. It shouldn’t have sparked pleasure in his chest, drawn a smile from his mouth. But there was something about running his hands along the handlebars, the soft leather seat, that felt like greeting an old friend. Is this why Dean called the Impala a ‘she?’ It felt right.

First things first: a tune up. He checked all the parts like Bobby and Karen had taught him, put fresh fuel in the tank. Nothing seemed to have gone wrong over the winter. His bike was ready to go. He kicked up the side stand and wheeled it—her—out into the sunshine. They crunched together across the gravel, wet bits clinging to the once pristine tires. When he stepped into the brown grass it squelched. The ground was fully wet, and once Cas got past the last of the cars in the scrapyard, he could see large puddles gleaming all over the empty field. He walked his bike to the edge of it; the nearest puddle was clear and deep as a tide pool, with dark, dead leaves left over from the fall caught beneath its surface. This was going to get dirty.

Castiel swung a leg over his bike. If he’d done his job right, she should start within a couple of kicks. One kick: the bike grumbled a little but quieted down…another kick with more _oomph_ and she roared to life, startling a couple grackles out of the trees edging the property. Castiel grinned, just from the feel of her running under him. Hearing the engine rev was just as exciting as it had been the first time. Though even that great sense of accomplishment was pushed aside because he knew the moment had finally come. He’d read the manual forward and backward, watched youtube tutorials, read all the do’s and don’t’s listicles. The only thing that was left was to ride. It was time to _go_.

So Cas went.

The bike leapt ahead and Cas whooped. He went a little faster, mud splattering onto his legs. Pushing it further, he made it to the other side of the field and turned, intending to make a circle. But he wasn’t prepared for all the pull of a motorcycle at speed. He lost his balance, the bike skid in the deep mud, and Castiel was tossed in the air. He landed in a puddle with a splash.

Cas blinked. He wiggled his fingers and toes; he was stunned, but perfectly fine. If wet, and cold, and absolutely caked in mud. But Castiel wasn’t concerned about that. A rumble built in his chest and rose the match his bike’s. It broke out of his grinning mouth in a laugh that shot straight up into the sky. He laughed and laughed and laughed, swishing around in the water and plastering himself with leaves. He’d done it. He’d finally flown again.

***

There was something different about Castiel lately, Dean noticed. A little looser during rehearsals, for one, though he’d chalked that up to settling in. He was showing up for Thursday night bowling more often, and though he usually played with Donna’s group Dean saw him smile more, heard him laugh more. The biggest thing had only crept up on Dean in the last couple of weeks; now that the weather was warmer he was dressing light and casual. Dean could have sworn when they’d first met there wasn’t a time he hadn’t seen him with a sweater or a sports coat, if not both, no matter the temperature. Ties, too, classic colors like blue and red, sometimes with subtle stripes. But now when Dean crossed his path at rehearsals there was neither tie nor jacket to be seen. He’d have his top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up, long, elegant fingers tripping up and down the piano’s keys. Made him want to shriek like a PTA mom when he’d first seen Cas like that, some vague notion about corrupting the kids with his masculine wiles, especially when he never gelled his hair anymore. It always stuck up now, thick and fluffy and windswept—or like someone had been running their fingers through it.

Maybe that last was Dean’s imagination. He should be _over_ Cas by now, damnit.

He repeated all of his reasons that dreaming of possibilities with Cas was a bad idea like a mantra: that they had nothing in common; his brains blew Dean’s out of the water; he was pretty much Sammy’s teacher; that he came from money and…well maybe he wasn’t the golden boy of his family, but that had to be temporary. No one could know Cas and not be impressed by him. Even Ms. Milton seemed to like him, and she never seemed to like much of anybody. The point was that a low class dropout ex-criminal like himself didn’t have much to offer, and it was best to avoid heartbreak before it even started.

Still, it didn’t stop Dean from eyeing Cas up and down when he came to the diner during his shifts. It usually wasn’t too long after Dean’s shift started that he’d walk in, stupid trenchcoat flapping around in a gust of wind by the door. If the late dinner rush lingered he’d politely take a small table like he used to, but more often that not he’d go for their—his—customary round booth in the corner, where he could spread out his books and papers. Then he’d sweep off his coat to drape over the back of the bench and that’s when the trouble really started for Dean: these days, underneath the coat were only ever a t-shirt in jeans.

On anyone else Dean honestly wouldn’t give a shit but these weren’t just any shirt and jeans. The shirts were always plain, solid colors, all of them v-necks that showed a tantalizing hint of collarbone. They were always tight around his upper arms and who knew he had some muscle? Come to think of it, he’d overheard him and Victor chatting once about what gym Cas could use once he no longer had access to the one on campus. Something about sprinters needing to build up more muscle than distance runners? It must have been the case, because simple and cheap as the jeans probably were, they wrapped tight around the thighs and snug on the ass and god help Dean if he were carrying anything when he saw it. He’d already dropped one plate and enough silverware that Rufus has been giving him the stink-eye a week straight.

Of course ignoring Cas wasn’t going to work, either. The booth was in Dean’s section and besides, Cas had a really nice smile that Dean always found himself returning without meaning to. It wasn’t a hardship, exactly, to serve him good food and keep his coffee refilled. Just…distracting.

He’d come in an hour or so later than usual today, and the difference in the way he carried himself was so great Dean knew he was right. Dude was downright _glowing_. Turned the heads of a group of girls drinking milkshakes as he walked by, too. When Castiel sat down they immediately leaned toward each other over their table to giggle and whisper.

Dean pushed down a spike of jealousy. Wasn’t his business. Instead Cas smiled at him across the room and Dean smiled back, already bringing over the pot of coffee.

By the time Dean’s break rolled around Castiel’s papers had done their kudzu-crawl all over the formica table, two open high school textbooks sprawled on top of them. Must be a lesson planning day. Dean brought over a BLT for himself—extra B—and a slice of peach cobbler for Cas, who’d practically inhaled his cheeseburger after he’d arrived. Cas never got pissy about Dean moving around his mess like Sam did if he’d taken over the kitchen table; in fact he didn’t even look up as Dean made space for the plates. He discovered why when he excavated Cas’s phone from under a stack of quizzes. A cord was plugged into it, and Dean traced it up to find that Cas had earbuds in.

He plopped down on his side of the booth and took a big bite of his sandwich. “Mmmph,” he moaned happily. Aaron should really ask Rufus for a raise, damn.

Cas tugged his earbuds out, eyes trained on the cobbler. “That for me?”

“Mmhm,” said Dean through another bite. He chewed just enough to ask, “Whatcha listening to? Bet it was something about the Protestant Reformation.”

Cas’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Protestant Reformation?”

He swallowed and nodded. “Sammy was listening to something like that the other day. Or do they make math podcasts?” Dean wiggled his eyebrows and chuckled into his sandwich.

Cas tilted his head slightly, quirking his lips. He unlocked his phone, slid it across the table, and scooped a little more whipped cream onto his fork.

Dean licked a bit of mayo off his thumb and slid the phone closer. “Best of Alice in Chains?”

“I like it,” said Cas, a bit of that glow about him again. There was a bit of smug about the way he chewed his bite of cobbler after, too.

“Really?” said Dean. “I thought nerds liked to listen to, I dunno, Beethoven or something.”

Castiel was the polite, Sammy-sort that swallowed his food before speaking, which meant Dean was subject to an elongated unimpressed look. “We listen to whatever we like, Dean.”

“I’m glad you like ‘em, don’t get me wrong,” he was quick to clear up. Dean took another bite and continued, “But it’s more my kind of thing. Surprising, is all.”

Again Cas waited until he’d swallowed before putting his elbows on the table and leaning a bit forward. He pointed his fork at Dean, tines curved down, syrupy patches of peach juice clinging to it. “Would you like some math nerd advice?”

This should be a hoot and holler, as Karen would say. Dean gestured with his sandwich for him to go ahead.

“People are like shapes.”

“Oh god, am I getting the ‘ogres are like onions’ talk?”

“Is everything a movie reference to you?” Cas sighed shortly.

“You got that one, nice!”

“Everyone’s seen Shrek,” he retorted. “But not quite. Shapes, the way most people think of them, are just lines a page, right?” He shoveled more cobbler into his mouth before pushing his plate aside, shuffling through his piles for a clean graph paper. He positioned a pencil so that it was touching somewhere near the middle. “A dot has no dimensions. A line, one dimension.” He drew a line across a few boxes. “Add more lines to get a two-dimensional shape.” His pencil went up, over, and down again. “Now, you may look at a nerd and see nothing but this square.”

The pun was so unexpected Dean squawked with laughter, barely stopping himself from spraying see-food all over the table.

Cas’s blue eyes sparkled, pleased with his joke. “This is what a square is by nature. What you see is what everyone else sees, so that must be all it is, right? And most people never look further than that because given the limitations of a notebook page, you can only see two dimensions of a shape. However,” he continued, drawing an overlapping square and connecting the corners with the first one, “using what mathematicians call projection, we can draw more lines to represent a three-dimensional shape. The square was a cube all along, with five more sides that you had imagined. Or is it?” He drew more shapes, each starting with a square: a rectangular block, a pyramid. Then he started drawing shapes within shapes, more complicated things Dean didn’t have names for. “If we project more, we discover different dimensions, stranger shapes. Then when drawing by hand becomes inadequate, we have computers. And when computers are inadequate—” He tapped the pencil on his temple. “—we have our brains.

“So even if this is all you see of me,” Cas concluded, drawing one last simple square, “that doesn’t mean it’s the side of my shape that others see, or even the one I’m looking at myself. And…” He set down the pencil gently, then pushed the notebook aside, though his gaze trailed after it. “I’m not sure what side of yourself you tend to look at, either, but given how hard you are on yourself I’m pretty sure it’s not the one I see.” His eyes flicked up from the table to meet Dean’s.

Dean stilled under his open expression, brow slightly furrowed like he thought with enough focus he could see deep down through all Dean’s dimensions. Which was ridiculous, because everyone knew that Dean was 90% full of crap. So what side did Cas see? How could it be possible that Dean wouldn’t be aware of his own ‘shape’ enough to understand it? After a moment Dean shoved the rest of the sandwich half into his mouth to give himself time to think. Cas watched him the whole time. Dean swallowed and cleared his throat. “You so sure of your own shape?”

Cas finally dropped his gaze and sighed. “No, not really. I think I’ve been working from my parents’ projection of me for too long.” Then he smiled to himself, like a ray of sun through a raincloud. “But I’m finding new angles.”

Dean bit his lip, eyeing his next set of study guides. “Speaking of angles…”

The heavy mood lifted almost instantly. “Geometry?” Castiel asked.

“I think so, yeah,” said Dean.

Cas snatched his homework and flipped through a couple of pages. “Hm.”

Dean started in on the second half of his BLT. “What?”

“Everything you know about cars, and construction. How did you learn it?”

“Grew up watching people,” said Dean. “Why?”

“Just an idea.” Primly he set Dean’s work back on his side of the table. “Let’s go to Harvelle’s tonight.”

“…But it’s Monday.”

“So what?”

“So I’m working here ‘til midnight.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “They’re open ‘til 2.”

“Look, dude,” said Dean, “staying up too late and rolling into work with no sleep? That’s the sort of thing people expect of me. But you? What would Ms. Milton say?”

“Well,” said Cas, looking philosophically at the chunk of cobbler he was balancing on his fork, “I’m the same age as you. I think I’ve got a few bad decisions left in me.” Dean watched his mouth as it closed around the dessert, lips sliding along the fork, whipped cream getting caught in their corners.

And how could he say no to that?

It turned out, after Dean followed Cas’s dorky little hatchback to Harvelle’s (could he blame him for always seeing the nerd?), that he wanted to play pool. Monday was pretty slow at the alley, especially back by the bar and pool tables, so they didn’t have to worry about waiting in line, or other people circling like sharks for the next free table. So they played for two hours straight: games where Cas had Dean explain to him why he was taking this shot or that in his own words, and why he knew it would work; games where Cas shot all the balls in himself, keeping up a running commentary for Dean’s benefit; games where Cas set the balls a certain way to begin a lesson and yelled at Dean for taking trick shots to completely mess him up—then demanded to learn those tricks in the same breath.

And as they played, sober but feeling increasingly giddy the later the hour, as they joked and laughed and one-upped each other, Dean’s brain drew shapes. At length he had to admit, if just to himself, that the square he saw when he looked at Cas was of his own making. That there was so much more to him than just the guy who taught math and enjoyed chess. He knew nothing about theatre, but he carried on with it because of how deeply he cared for his students. He rarely drank, but after the holidays it was more than clear he knew how. He was soft, but packed on muscle; he was kind, but with a hint of sadness. There was strength in his hands despite their elegance, and as Dean watched him line up shot after shot, cue sliding between his fingers, he noticed for the first time nicks and scratches that spoke to working with them. Dean liked that.

In fact the more sides of Cas he let blossom before his eyes, the more he liked.

The worst part of it all was the Dean could see that same spark of discovery written all over Castiel’s face. He didn’t know what mathematics had to say about it, but from where Dean was standing this whole _shape_ thing wasn’t a one-way street. If he was filling in all the colors and dimensions of Cas, then he was doing the same for Dean. How much of it did he see? How did it compare to the what others saw of him: the competent mechanic his satisfied customers saw, the part of him that would always be a little boy in the Singers’ eyes, yes, alright, the _geeky_ side that Charlie brought out, or even how, against all the odds, Sammy still looked at him and saw a good brother? Or did notice the shadows of his darkest self, the jagged edges that Alastair had cast a blinding spotlight on, the part of him that haunted and shamed him his every idle moment? The part that was capable of cruelty and betraying others and destroying everything in his path? No, it was certain Cas couldn’t see it otherwise he wouldn’t still be there, using his pool cue to keep balance as he belly-laughed. And that’s why, in the end, nothing could go further than this. If they got too close, Dean’s shape would rip Castiel’s to shreds. Dean promised himself he would never let that happen.

Within the month, that choice was taken out of his hands.

***

In late March, when the threat of snow was over and spring had finally settled in for good, it got stuffy in the theatre, especially backstage. Dean and the kids liked to keep the garage door by the shop open to let him some air, especially now that they were finally painting the set. He was having a good time, laughing as he overheard Marie do the verse of a song over and over. He was pretty sure he could tell how hard Cas was keeping in his temper by the clipped sound of the piano keys.

But then the music was taken over by the sound of a rumbling engine— _multiple_ rumbling engines cutting through the shop. He’d know the cacophony of those particular engines anywhere. “Everybody stay here,” he snapped, and beelined for the open garage door.

It couldn’t be, but…it was.

The Hellraisers. Revving the engines on their choppers, full on gas-guzzling hogs painted with garish red flames, they rolled into the high school parking lot. Dean walked further out of shop, legs planted and hands free and relaxed at his sides, ready for anything. They made straight for him, braking a few feet away and idling their engines. There were only a few of them, far from the whole group, but the nastiest of them were present: Abaddon, Dagon. Alastair. Every one of them in the MC vest, covered with patches declaring their creepy, undying loyalty to each other and their fucked up worldview.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” said Alastair. He grinned wolfishly, the sort of thing that used to get Dean excited for trouble afoot. But now that he knew what kind of trouble that meant, it made him sick.

“The fuck are you doing here?” said Dean. “How’d you find me?”

“Had a little help from a new recruit,” he said. Someone at the back of the pack revved their engine. Dean snapped his head to look and realized that though the intervening years hadn’t been kind, his old high school classmate Azazel was there. Of all the fucking luck. Alastair continued, “I was so…thrilled…when it turned out we had a mutual friend.”

Dean tensed, but tried to keep his cool. “You and I ain’t friends,” he settled on saying.

“Aren’t we?” he asked. “You and I were the very best of friends, once upon a time.”

Suddenly Az sat up a little in his seat. “Well if it isn’t little Sammy!” The asshole had used to torment Sam and his group of friends before his growth spurt.

Sure enough, Sam had come up to stand at his shoulder. “Hey Az, thought you couldn’t be within five miles of a school.”

“Sam, stay back,” said Dean, holding an arm across his chest before he could step closer.

“Aw,” said Dagon, “let the boy come and play.”

“Just get off school property, and leave the kids alone. Capisce?”

“Oh, I don’t care about anyone else,” Al assured him. “Why don’t we go for a ride, and the kids don’t have to be involved at all.”

Dean hesitated. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was go _anywhere_ with Alastair and his gang, but if it meant they left the school…

But Sam didn’t hesitate. “Eat shit,” he spat.

Dean’s heart jumped into his throat, but Al just lifted his hands palm out. “Fine, fine. But this school does bring back memories of my own high school days. How about for the rest of you?”

“Plenty of memories,” said Dagon.

“Like I lived a whole other life,” said Abaddon.

“I wouldn’t say no to a bit of vandalism, now that we’re here,” Alastair continued. “What’ll be, Dean? Spray painting dicks on the wall? Scratching your number into the bathroom stall, ‘call Dean for a good time’?”

Dean felt a hot flash of shame, which did nothing but ignite his rage. “I’m warning you—”

“Oh, I know,” he said, with that false veneer of pleasantness, “how about a bit of keying cars?” In one swift movement, he shut off his bike, stood, and twirled the keys on his finger. He curled his lip at Dean, and starting striding toward the Impala.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Dean shouted, running past him and planting himself in front of his Baby.

Then suddenly, without Dean really seeing how it happened, Alastair was there, right in his face. “I knew this would get you to come to me,” he said.

In pure instinct, Dean lifted his fist to punch, but Alastair was faster, grabbing his wrist.

“HEY!” came a deep voice, loud and powerful enough to cut over the engines and across the lot. It was Castiel, walking swiftly in a cold rage, tearing Sam out of Az’s grip where he’d stopped him from following Dean. In his surprise, Az let him do it.

Abaddon laughed, loud and piercing. “What are you going to do about it, pretty boy?” She kicked down her stand and stood; the others followed suit.

Castiel held up his phone. “911? I’ve got some shifty-looking bikers harassing people in the parking lot at Hunter High.”

“A squad car is on its way,” the phone responded; it was on speaker. “Can you describe the bikers?”

“Ugly. Shitty paint jobs on the bikes.”

“This isn’t done,” hissed Al, his warm, fetid breath ghosting across Dean’s face. “Don’t think I haven’t learned all your little hidey-holes.” He turned and stalked back toward his bike. “We ride!”

The others didn’t look happy, but they followed his lead. In less than ten seconds—and several more unnecessary revs of their engines—they were all heading out of the lot and menacing their way out of the neighborhood.

Only when the sound of the engines faded away did they all take a collective breath. All except Castiel: he was staring after them, still as a statue. The high schoolers were ranged behind him, bursting with questions and talking all at once.

Rubbing his wrist, Dean walked back to join them. Sam came up to meet him. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Fine.” Then a little louder, “Call off the cops, Cas.”

“I didn’t call them yet,” said the voice on the phone, and only then did Dean realize who it was.

“Jody?”

“Yep. Get me off speaker and talk to me right now.”

Cas tapped a button and handed over the phone. Gone was the righteous rage; all that was left was unapologetic concern. “She was the first person I thought of to call.”

“’S fine,” said Dean, taking the phone. Then louder, “The rest of you get inside!” The kids grumbled. “Now! Sammy, get ‘em inside.” Sam sighed, but did as he was told, using his gargantuan arm span to herd everyone back into the shop. Cas watched them head back inside, but stayed with Dean, crossing his arms and not looking like he was planning to move one bit. Their gazes caught and held fast.

“Dean?” came the tinny voice from the phone, now much quieter.

“Yeah, Jody,” he said, finally bringing it up to his ear. “They’re called the Hellraisers."

***

It was a Thursday, and everybody was at Harvelle Bowl. This was true for Sam and his friends as much as it was for everyone else, even though Dean had kicked up a fuss after what had happened at the school that day. But what could they do in the middle of a bowling alley full of witnesses? Sam sat back and laughed with his friends, who’d all chipped in to buy a couple pitchers of coke and some wings.

Jake Talley stepped up the line and stared down the lane. Two pins stood on each side before the pit, a whole expanse between them.

“Not happening!” called Max.

“Bet you five bucks it will,” said Alicia.

Lily grinned. “I’ll take that action.”

“Here I go,” said Jake, taking a step forward. Sam and his friends whooped into an ever higher pitch as he swung his arm back and let go. The ball spun and spun toward one of the pins—which skittered across the lane and took the other one out with it. The whoop turned into cheers and screams, and such was the celebration, Jake’s hands in the air and accepting high fives all around, that at first they didn’t notice Ava trying to get their attention.

“Guys. Guys! It’s Az!”

That caught Sam’s attention. “What?”

“It’s Az!” she repeated, frantic. “He’s outside.”

Sam felt instantly cold all over, but also hard as ice. “Who else?”

“No one!”

But Azazel had been with an entire gang of shady-ass bikers at the school. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t see anybody else!” Ava was shaking. Lily pressed some pop into her hand and she drank half of it down in two big gulps.

Sam and Jake looked at each other. There wasn’t a pipsqueak in the whole school district who hadn’t been tormented by Az before he graduated and moved on to other pursuits, but Sam and Jake had caught it more than anybody else they knew. And it just so happened that they’d grown up into two of the tallest, strongest dudes they knew. With a quick glance to their adjoining lane, Sam saw that Dean wasn’t there—must be making a beer run—and his brother’s friends seemed occupied enough. He turned back to Jake and nodded.

They ran.

Not away, as they sometimes used to before they decided trying to get a punch in was worth getting a punch back; they ran _toward_ Az, ready to give him the fight they were never able to give him when they were kids and he was nineteen, ugly, and mean. They flew past the other lanes, jumping around a group headed back toward the bar, careened around the corner, and burst out the front doors to face Az.

Az, and half a dozen other Hellraisers.

They stopped in their tracks. The rest of their friends, who’d been racing behind them, skidded into their backs and froze.

“Hey there, Jake,” said Az. “Sammy.” He was heading up the group this time; Sam didn’t think he recognized anyone else from the school. “And look, the rest of the gang is here.”

Sam let his rage carry him through his fear. “So’s yours.”

“Now Sammy, did you really think it was going to be just me?” A wave of laughter spread from him and back through the rest of the bikers like wildfire. The neon lights of Harvelle Bowl glinted yellow in his eyes. “Wanna play?”

Sam looked at Jake. Seeing the same determination in his face, he turned back to Az. “Yeah. Let’s play.”

***

When Dean came back from his beer run, he found the rest his friends squabbling over something Charlie had open on her phone. He rolled his eyes and then, out of habit, looked out for Sam. But their lane was completely empty, the ‘Sam’s turn’ flashing on the TV screen above the chairs. His heart skipped a beat.

“Hey!” he said. His friends startled. “Where the fuck is Sam?”

“I—I don’t know,” said Charlie.

“You lookin’ for, uh, all them?” In the third to last lane, slumped in that grouping of chairs, was Andy, a kid around Sam’s age at Hunter. He drove a ridiculous van with a mural on the side and, Dean was sure, was high most of the time. “They ran” —he pointed toward the front entrance— “that way.”

“Wait, ran?” said Dean.

“Yep.” He shoved a bunch of fries into his mouth.

And just like that, Dean knew.

He sprinted across the bowling alley, shoving people aside as he went. His friends were yelling behind him, but there was no time, no time. His past had come home to roost and Sam was about to pay the price.

When he burst outside, his fears were realized. Sam and Jake and the Banes twins were going at in the parking lot with Hellraisers, and losing. Lily and Ava looked torn at what to do, but Dean didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the nearest leather vest and _pulled_. The guy stumbled back, and Dean punched him right in the face.

Dean could hear in his periphery what sounded like his friends joining the fight, but he couldn’t spare a thought for them. Victor was a cop and Billie and Charlie were both scrappy enough for all their wayward youths. All Dean could see through the red film in his eyes was Sam in Azazel’s grip, trying to get a kick in.

But with the arrival of Dean and his friends, a couple of the bikers got smart. They hopped on their choppers and started the menace the crowd that was spilling out of the alley into the night. People shrieked and jumped out of the way. Then one of the drove straight into the brawl, cutting off Dean’s line to Sam. Dean yelled and tackled him as he went past; they both tumbled to the asphalt. Victor was there, tearing the guy off of Dean and laying him out flat. Dean stumbled back to his feet, searching frantically for his brother. There were more people fighting now, drunks and assholes from the alley jumping in for fucking _fun_ , and it was getting harder to tell friend from foe. So Dean punched and shoved his way through it all. “Sam!” he yelled. “Sammy!”

“Dean!”

Dean followed the shout and saw Jake first when his head whipped back from a nasty head. Sam pushed himself between Az and his friend, but Az was expecting it: he kicked Sam’s legs out from under him and dove in after, raising his arm for a wicked punch. Dean screamed, because he knew he wouldn’t get there fast enough.

Then out of nowhere, another motorcycle. Smaller than the others, it’s whine close to Dean’s ear. It sped past him, weaving through melee, and aimed unerringly toward Azazel. The asshole froze, hand still raised and threw himself to the side to get out of his way. The new biker skid to a stop between Az and Sam, who was getting dragged to his feet by Jake. Dean ran up to help.

Then a high-pitched scream as one of the Hellraisers went for the crowd again on his chopper. The new guy, clad head to toe in black leather with a black helmet to match, turned his head. Then he revved his own engine, and headed the chopper off at the pass. Soon the new bike was almost everywhere, its rider flitting through the crowd, darting like a bee and separating everyone—no, specifically separating the kids from everyone else.

When the Hellraisers wised up to what he was doing, the rest of them got back on their bikes, even Az. It was only because he had herded Sam and Jake to the edge of the fray that Dean had a clear view of what was going on: they were gonna corner the new rider. “Watch out!” Dean bellowed.

Dean thought the rider tilted his head toward him, but couldn’t quite tell in the dark; whatever the case, he noticed the trap. But the Hellraisers were coming at him from every direction. Where could he go?

The answer, it seemed, was up. Dean wasn’t sure quite how he did it, but the biker used the yellow parking blocks in the lot to give his bike a boost and up onto the hood of the nearest car, which he then used to get onto the roof of the next one. “Holy shit,” said Dean.

The Hellraisers stopped their coordinated effort, confused on what to do, just as awed as the rest of them as the rider hopped from roof to roof, turning around, headed straight back toward the other bikers. A short argument sprung up between them, Az pointing frantically in one direction.

Then, sirens.

Suddenly the Hellraisers were very coordinated. They rumbled toward the exit, but the rider headed them off at the pass, and the newly arrived cop cars did the rest.

Dean slumped against the nearest car. Sam and Jakes friends ran up to talk to them, and why did they sound so excited? Did they have any idea what had almost happened?

The fighters were scattering, the motorcycle engines had stopped. All but one. Tires wheeled into Dean’s view of the asphalt, and he lifted his gaze slowly, eyed the bike—a classic Honda off-roader, holy shit—and its blue-flame paint job. “Cool ride,” said Dean.

The helmet covered most of the man’s face, but for his mouth. He smiled. “Thanks.”

Dean smiled back through a split lip. “I think I owe you a drink.”

“I’d like that.”

“Hey!” someone shouted behind them. “You! Look what you did to my car!”

“Shit,” said the rider. “Another time.”

“Wait!” said Dean. “What’s your—?” But the rider was long gone.

He didn’t move ‘til Charlie sauntered up next to him. “Cool ride,” she mimicked gruffly.

“Shut up,” he said, then did a double-take. “Wait, did you get all that recorded?”

Charlie tossed her phone in the air and caught it. “Yup.”

“Awesome.”

“Awesome evidence,” said Victor, coming up on her other side.

“No way,” she said, clutching it to her chest. “He was the hero. You can’t bring him in because someone’s SUV got scratched!”

“I’m with Charlie on this one,” said Dean.

“Just for his license plate,” Vic tried. “Don’t you guys want to know who he is?”

“Nope,” said Dean, lying through his teeth.

Victor shook his head, not fooled in the slightest, but went back to the on-duty cops emptyhanded because he was a good friend.

Not that—between yelling at Sam and holding ice to his lip back inside the bowling alley—Dean didn’t do a little investigating of his own. But even with Charlie’s google-fu no one could come up with anything, and as Dean’s interaction with the guy spread from their group someone started calling him the Cool Rider, and that was his name.

***

That weekend when Castiel arrived at Singer Salvage, it felt as if some dark thing had soaked the office in its miasma. He peeked through the door into the garage to see Bobby tinkering with a car’s engine and cursing up a storm; Karen was by the computer in the back, putting together papers for him, bags under her eyes and a downturn to her mouth. It could have been Cas projecting his own mood onto them, but Karen’s smile was uncharacteristically wan when she saw him. “I think that’s the last of it,” she said, patting the papers. Tax season was upon them, and recently Cas was riding the computer more often than his bike. “Would you like anything? Coffee?”

“I’m fine for now,” Cas assured her.

“Alright. Well, I made some pies last night. Apple. Blueberry. Strawberry rhubarb. They’re in the kitchen if you want some later. I have crust left over, so I might make cherry after we close at noon.” She was wringing her hands a little. “Or blackberry. I think I have—maybe not. Maybe I’ll go to the grocery and—” Karen cut herself off, seeming to realize she was rambling.

“Are you—” Cas began.

“Oh I’m fine,” she interrupted with forced brightness. But then, putting her hands on his shoulders, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said into his ear.

Guilt pulsed in his chest. He’d had some hope that neither Karen nor Bobby had recognized him; he’d fled at the police’s arrival, and had his bike safely ensconced in the shed long before they’d gotten home. Like a coward he’d immediately hopped into his car and driven away, half exhilarated, half scared out of his mind at what he’d just done. He still couldn’t figure out quite why he’d even ridden his bike to Harvelle’s in the first place. It was something about seeing those ugly motorcycles at the school and the assholes who rode them that, though they were strangers to him, he took personally. He’d wanted to prove to himself, maybe, that they were _not_ what motorcycles stood for. Now look where his pride had gotten him.

“Does Dean know?” he asked.

Her brows furrowed. “You didn’t tell him?”

“I…I couldn’t,” he admitted. “He probably isn’t feeling charitable toward bikers right now.”

“I think he might feel charitable toward the biker that broke up the fight,” she said. When Castiel just ducked his head, she sighed. “But I suppose it’s your choice. Bobby and I will be in the garage if you need us.”

Cas did his best with the tax work, but for once the numbers offered no escape for him. These Hellraisers had smashed a hornet’s nest at his feet, stinging everyone around him. Sam wasn’t his usual self in class, Dean wouldn’t look him in the eye, and the Singers were upset, too. But the crux of it was that Castiel knew next to nothing about them, yet didn’t know who best to ask. Still, taxes waited for no man. He had no plans of disappointing the Singers with shoddy accounting. It was so slow-going, though, that by 10:30 even thoughts of the Hellraisers were being overshadowed by pie.

Outside the sky was clear, nothing but unbroken blue for miles. Castiel breathed the fresh spring air, enjoyed the quiet crunch of gravel under his feet. It was worlds away from a dark bowling alley parking lot and exhaust fumes thick in his lungs. He took the ramp up to the porch, since it faced the garage, and found that the front door was open to the screen, letting in a cross breeze. It was unlocked, as it usually was. The hinges squeaked as he entered, the screendoor clapping shut behind him. Karen had said she’d baked last night, but the smell of butter and sugar lingered. He was wondering if he might have room for two slices when he turned the corner into the kitchen and saw Dean.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, which was covered in practice tests. He looked haggard; his elbows were on the table and his hands were buried in his hair as he stared down at his work. When he sensed Castiel standing in the doorway, he lifted his head and blinked in confusion. “Cas?”

“Dean.”

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Dean cracked into a wide yawn. He shuddered a bit when it was through and sighed softly, resting his head on the heel of his hand. “What you doing here?”

Cautiously Cas stepped into the kitchen, the old floor groaning under his shoes. “Working on the Singers’ taxes.”

“Oh. Right.” Dean picked up a pen and tapped a fast rhythm on the edge of the table, eyes back on his tests.

Cas surveyed the counter and sure enough, there were three pies lined up in a row. Strangely though, none of them had been touched. It was especially strange given Dean’s presence; in all his times at the diner, Castiel hadn’t once seen him choose a dessert other than pie. And Karen may have been stress baking, but the direction of her work had clearly been for Dean’s benefit. He peeked at Dean over his shoulder. His free hand was tugging his hair again while he made a desultory mark on the page. Looked like he needed a break just as much as Cas did. “I think I’m going to have some blueberry,” he said. “Do you want a slice?”

“Nah,” said Dean. He didn’t look up.

Okay then.

A long knife and pie server were already laid out neatly on a small plate next to the pies. Cas cut himself a generous slice of blueberry, grabbed a fork, and sat down across from Dean. He broke into the tip of the pie with his fork and separated a piece from the main, but…left in on the plate. It didn’t feel right to eat it while Dean was having a tough time. He tried a different tack. “I didn’t see the Impala out front.”

“Mm, no,” said Dean. “Gave her to Sammy for the day. He insisted on going out even though I told him—well, whatever.”

Castiel could guess. That car meant a lot to Dean, and handing her over seemed like a protective gesture. “That was nice of you.”

“Nice my ass,” grumbled Dean. “Because of course right after he left I get a call from Rufus and he needs me to pick up a shift today, and the Singers are gonna drop me off but I ain’t waking them up at midnight to come get me so I’m gonna have to walk back to my apartment even though I’m so fucking _tired_ and now all the progress I made on these stupid tests is fluke because I can’t answer anything right and I’m going to fail this like I fail everything else and—” He picked up all his packets, the ones Cas had seen him painstakingly sort and staple from his many photocopies, and started ripping them up.

“Dean!” Cas jumped out of his chair and grabbed whatever he could; they grappled over the study guides for several seconds until Cas had pulled the last ripped piece from Dean’s hands and slammed it on top of the rest.

The fight dropped from Dean. He slumped back into his chair and stared blankly like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Cas leaned into the pile of papers, the slow clenching of his fingers making them worse. How was this fair? Why did he have to see Dean like this, sad and hurting and falling apart, and feel the immense ache spreading in his chest for want to assuage it? Why must he be so useless before Dean’s pain, just standing there caught between the helplessness and the rising horror that the reason it hurt so bad was because he _loved him_. What a terrible thing to discover in a moment like this. No joyful revelation, no smiles or kisses. Just a deep-set desire to suffer all of Dean’s pain, because Castiel knew it would hurt far less than seeing him in it.

The best he could do was try and draw it from him, like poison from a wound.

He lifted his hands from Dean’s study guides, peeled off a piece of paper that stuck to one of his palms. Then, as calmly as possible, Castiel sat back down in his chair. “Tell me about the Hellraisers,” he said.

Dean didn’t move but for a small, rueful smile. “Might as well. Everyone else knows now. Never seen my friends so mad, shit.” Gingerly as an old man, he hauled himself back up and crossed his arms on the table. “Couldn’t tell ‘em everything, though. They’re still out there.”

“Who are they?”

“Motorcycle club. Gang, really. The bad kind.” Dean worked his jaw while choosing his next words. “Long and short of it is that after my parents died I went out on the road. Left Sammy behind with the Singers.” He searched Cas for some kind of judgment then, but who was Cas to lecture on leaving family behind? He nodded. Dean continued. “Picked up odd jobs here and there to make ends meet. Hustled pool when I needed cash quick.”

Cas felt a ghost of a smile. “I imagine you were good at that.”

“Piece of cake. None of them were as good as you.” The humor fell flat, his defeatedness lending the comment a sincerity it might otherwise have lacked. He stared down at the table. “Anyway, I fell in with a chop shop in Milwaukee. Plenty of them are legit these days, but they got their start when people were moving stolen bikes and needed to make them untraceable, you know? And this chop shop was as old school as they come.”

He spoke then of starting at Old Nick’s, where his talent was recognized very quickly. The Pit he spoke of with equal reverence and fear, the size of the place, the heat, the endless stripping and rebuilding of bikes. He described the network of thieves, some of them freelance. The skill of the mechanics and engineers, the painters and salesmen, and most of all the Hellraisers who ran it all. “They built their empire on their chop shop,” said Dean. “But they used it to finance a lot of other hinky stuff. And I mean hinky. We all knew it, it’s just if you weren’t a member of the gang…”

“They left you in the dark,” Cas concluded.

Dean lifted his eyes, red-rimmed, wet with the threat of tears. “Except for me.”

The ache in Cas’s chest sharpened, honed with the dread of what he was about to hear. “They singled you out?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Not they,” Dean hissed. “ _Alastair_.”

“The man who threatened you at the school,” said Cas. It was an effort to keep the rage from his voice. He sat on his hands to keep them from shaking.

“That’s him. Rat bastard.” Dean made no such effort; the vitriol those words held was sharp, acidic. “See the Hellraisers ran us, but he runs them. So it’s usually the lower levels who do the recruiting. They hook schmucks with just enough to get them hungry, but uh. Alastair took an interest. Lucky me, right?” He flashed a wretched version of his charming smile.

“But you left,” said Cas. “He didn’t win.”

“Didn’t he?” said Dean. “Al ain’t stupid, Cas. Maybe he showed me enough to bring the shop down but he’s untouchable, okay? If I’d gone to the cops or the feds and they started sniffing around he’d’ve known it was me. I thought if I kept my mouth shut they’d let me go and I could protect my family. Now look what’s happened. They’re attacking kids, they’re coming after _Sam_ and it’s all my fault. God, I was so damn stupid.” He slammed a hand on the table and turned his head.

“You were stupid for the right reasons.” Of that, Castiel was certain. Dean’s true loyalty was to his family and a few poor decisions didn’t make that any less the case. “And did protect them. By saving yourself.”

“Tch,” Dean scoffed. “Like that matters.”

“It’s all that matters!” Castiel was losing the thread on his anger. Dean’s face went slack with surprise, but he couldn’t hold back anymore. “I don’t believe for a second that you would have made these people happy if you’d stayed. And if they’d gone after you on their turf, what then? No one to protect you, and no one to protect your family. But here, they came to the school and they came for Sam and you were _there_. You were a shield between them and the Hellraisers. And that was enough because here you aren’t alone. Everyone held them off. No one was much hurt. The black hats got theirs and the good guys won.”

“It ain’t over, Cas!” said Dean. “Alastair wasn’t there, the big guns weren’t there. Az went off the rails and got a few punks locked up, and that’s _it_.” He slashed an arm through the air. “You know what that means, don’t you? The rest left to escape the heat but they’re coming back, Cas. When they do they’re not gonna play nice.”

“So you know the county sheriff. One of your best friends is a cop. You can—”

“I already told you I can’t! I can’t tell them everything because they don’t understand how his mind works, not like I do. I tried telling Sam once but I don’t think he really got it…in a lot of ways he’s still just kid…”

“So tell me.”

For a while Dean stared him down, lips pursed, a hard glint in his eyes. Steadfast, Castiel met his gaze; this, he knew, was the epicenter, the poisoned thorn with which Dean had been stabbed, from which radiated his guilt, his pain. This, Castiel would gladly lift from him.

Dean’s lip curled in a sneer. “Alastair seduced me. I let him.”

Cas sucked in a breath. “He’s at least twice our age.”

“I liked it,” Dean answered. “It was exciting. He had so much power, and somehow I caught his attention. Me, of all people. Dude didn’t give a shit about anyone else but he noticed me, and he praised me, spent time with me. Showed me all the, the wonders of his kingdom like it would be mine someday. But he didn’t mean any of it. Obviously.” Dean shook his head, disgusted with himself. “It was just a distraction.”

“From what?”

“From what he was making of me.” A single tear broke free and trickled down Dean’s cheek. He wiped it away. “No one understands. They hear I stripped stolen bikes and they’re like ‘that sucks’ but they don’t get it. Working on cars, on bikes, that means everything to me. It’s my childhood, it’s my parents’ legacy, it’s…” He lifted and dropped his hands, at a loss.

“Your core,” said Cas. “The thing in this world that speaks to you in a way nothing else does.”

“Yeah, that’s…yeah. When I’m working on an engine or something, and doing it right it feels—I feel—pure. And Al saw it. I know that now, from the way he wanted me to do things. The way he wanted me to tear things apart, what he had me build…”

Cas felt tears pricking his own eyes. “He targeted the passion at the foundation of your self. The part of your soul that you look at and think, despite my failures and despite my mistakes, I am good and what I do in this world is good. And he redirected it. Little by little he twisted it inside out until one day you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the person staring back at you. Because it was too late. You’d already betrayed the person you used to be, and put out into the world the antithesis of what your gift is meant for.”

“And if you’re capable of that,” Dean agreed, “you’re capable of anything.” His face was caught between confusion and wonder. “How in the hell…?”

“I believe I told you I was an accountant,” said Cas. Dean nodded solemnly. “I didn’t set out to become one. But once I showed an aptitude for math my parents, and even some of my siblings when they were older, would say things like ‘Oh, you’d make such a good accountant’—over and over, like a drill to the head. Everyone had to join the family business and this is how they decided I would fit.”

Dean swallowed and sniffed, wiping the last of his tears away. “Was the family business so bad?”

“It must seem strange to you,” said Cas with a tiny smile, “surrounded as you are by them. And if my family were anything like the Singers, I may have been content in my role. But no. They own financial firms. Stockbroking companies. Banks.” Castiel told him of all the ways they played magic tricks with accounts, convinced people to take out bad loans and default on them, the shell companies and overseas accounts, and all the lobbyists in every politician’s office to make sure it stayed legal. “They only ever liked numbers for their bottom line. They thought I was the same,” said Cas. “They couldn’t see their beauty. I took accounting classes, but those are nothing like high level math classes. The theory, the colors, the shapes, impossible equations men and women spend their entire lives trying to solve, just so we all gain one more piece of understanding. How can I be a good teacher,” he pleaded, “when I betrayed everything I’m supposed to teach?”

“You’re a good teacher, Cas,” said Dean. “I know it.”

“Well I don’t. I never know what I’m doing. Why I’m even bothering to graduate.”

After a minute, Dean said, “How about this? If you promise to graduate and keep teaching, I’ll promise to get my GED. Even though, even though I want to give up. Even though every other morning I wake up wanting to escape, wanting to be someone like…the Cool Rider.”

“Who?”

“The biker that broke the brawl up at the alley? I thought you saw what happened?”

Is that what they were calling it? “No, I did, I just didn’t know.”

“The point is, maybe we can do it. Maybe we can be better if we keep each other honest, you know. Deal?”

Cas took a breath, and thought about it. “Eat some pie,” he said, pushing his plate across the table. “And you have a deal.”

Dean ate the pie.

***

Dean smiled and waved as he said goodbye, wishing them well on the graveyard shift, but as soon as the tinkling bell herded him out the diner door he sighed. He looked down the deserted road toward home, the cracked sidewalk, the old streetlights dim with age. His jacket would be warm enough, at least, though the nights were still significantly cooler than the days. Nothing would save his feet, though; he’d been running around since seven in the morning, and now that it was just after midnight not even his boots would keep him from hurting these few miles home. He hitched his bag a little better on his shoulder. Nothing for it.

“Need a ride?”

For a split second Dean didn’t turn; he knew that voice, that impossibly deep voice, but if he turned and it _wasn_ _’t_ , how immeasurably worse he was going to feel—but he turned, and there he was: the cool rider.

Dean had dreamed of him, but this was somehow, impossibly, better than the dream. He was wearing his leathers, yes, and that damned helmet with the visor; the flames on his bike were blue and white; he sat on it like he knew exactly what to do with it. But in the golden light spilling from the large diner windows Dean could see details he hadn’t seen before. There was the quality of the paint job, for one, which Dean could tell must have taken a lot of time, given the layering of the paint and the flowing way they merged and intertwined. The bike was shining except for the dirt on the lower half: an off-roader bike actually used for its purpose, not just for show. And the way he was sitting…ass just resting on the side of the seat, left leg planted out in front for balance, right foot resting on the frame, a casual elbow on the handlebars. Leather stretched tight across thick thighs. The hint of a knowing smile on his lips.

Usually in the face of so fine a specimen Dean would find himself either speechless or stuttering. But there was something about being around someone who was so deeply inhabiting their truest selves, a kind of freedom, and it pulled Dean like a moth to the flame. Dean just _felt_ different around the rider. He’d gotten only a hint of it outside Harvelle’s but here, now, standing in the small parking lot with smarting feet and a day’s, a whole week’s worth of exhaustion on his shoulders, there was no other place he’d rather be than right here with this man. Dean felt settled in his own skin. He liked who he was—who this man gave him the potential to be.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll take a ride.”

The knowing smile only widened slightly—an acknowledgment that what he’d always known had come to pass—and the man stood. Behind him on the seat he revealed another helmet and held it out to Dean. While Dean fastened it on his head the rider swung his leg over the bike (now _that_ was a view) and started up the engine. Dean bit his lip; he’d left enough room on the seat for Dean to sit behind him. It just struck him as strange, for up to the point where he’d first seen this guy ride, all his fantasies had Dean as the driver: a girl or guy riding shotgun in the Impala or, sure, who doesn’t dream of riding a bike once or twice? Dean liked driving, being in control. This guy, he reminded himself, has control. He knows the rules of riding so well he could break them outside a fucking bowling alley.

And being able to let go—that was a real wish. A deep one. He could let go for a night, couldn’t he?

The man gave him no sign that he was impatient, but the angle of his helmet made it clear he was watching Dean, waiting for him. A small, perverse part of him wanted to see how long he would wait until he felt Dean wasn’t worth the trouble. But the rest of him said, _Who do you want to be?_

Dean wanted to be the sort of guy who could hop on a bike behind another dude, wrap his arms around him, go for a midnight ride, and love every minute of it.

So he hopped on.

“Hold tight,” said the man, revving the engine.

The sleeves of Dean’s jacket slid easily around the rider’s. They were both big men, there was no way they were getting anywhere with space between them, so Dean tightened his grip and pressed them together, shoulder to hips.

It wasn’t long before Dean figured out where they were going. Wasn’t too much high elevation around these parts, but there were some small bluffs along the river. There was a small park with a couple picnic tables where people liked to bring their kids and dogs during the day in one area, with a small parking lot that shared the view. Dean had gone up there once or twice himself at night, in the Impala, when he was trying to impress someone in high school. But it’s been years.

Sure enough, the Rider took the turn into the park. Since there were a lot of trees by the river, the road was dark cut off from the main lights of the city. They sped from globe to globe cast by the soft yellow streetlamps that dotted the way. The weather was clear, but when they got to the parking lot it was miraculously empty of people. The Rider slowed down and steered the bike to the far edge, closest to the river view, and parked it neatly beneath one of the lamps. Perfect.

“Leave her running for a minute,” said Dean enthusiastically. He hopped off the left side and after a slight hesitation, the Rider put down the stand and swung himself off to the right. As soon as he was standing Dean took off his helmet and tossed it over. It smacked into the Rider’s leather gloves.

Dean dropped his bag onto the asphalt and rubbed his hands together. “She’s a beauty,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Dean grinned at him before kneeling to get a closer look at the bike. “Good ground clearance. Two nineteen-inch wheels, steel rims. Stacked exhaust pipes.” They sure as hell didn’t make ‘em like this anymore. He followed the pipes, each curving out from the engine to wrap together down the left side. They had snuffer nuts on the ends, little valves that muffled the sound of the engine. The Cool Rider was some kind of gentleman, seemed like, since the little discs were down to make it quieter. He said nothing, though, when Dean flipped them up for a moment to hear the difference. Like music to his ears, damn. But he flipped them back down, because he could be polite, too. Had to respect another man’s ride. Hopping back to his feet, he circled around to the other side. “She’s a Honda 305 Scrambler, am I right?”

The Rider was standing with his hip cocked, Dean’s borrowed helmet under his arm. “CL77,” he confirmed.

Dean ran his hand along the long seat, black leather still warm from their body heat. “What’s her year?”

“1967.”

Dean froze. “No friggin’ _way_.” A bemused smile lifted up one corner of the Rider’s mouth. Dean rushed to explain. “My car’s a ‘67. Black Chevy Impala. She’s gorgeous, I keep her up myself. I’m a mechanic. I mean obviously I work at the diner but I’m a mechanic, too. That’s why I really appreciate your ride, man. I think you’d like my Baby too, maybe next time—I mean—” _Holy shit, shut up, Dean!_

The Rider’s smile had been steadily growing as he spoke. Thankfully he didn’t seem turned off by Dean’s rambling. Or implying that there would be a next time. That was a good sign, right?

Dean cleared his throat. “Anyway.” He continued his inspection, noted the tool roll holder, admired the paint job on the side panel and fuel tank. Up close, it wasn’t just blue-white fire. Among the flames were intricate curves and far-out shapes like they were burning in some crazy galaxy. “Killer paint job, dude,” he said. “Would make a great tatt.”

“I have thought about it.”

“It would make you even hotter.” Holy crap. “No! I just mean—” Dean hoped it was dark enough to hide his blush, despite the streetlamp. He was a second away from tossing himself over the bluff as it was. “Like, you’d be hotter, like your bike is hotter, ‘cause it looks like it’s in space, and in space blue is the hottest color, and all those other assholes have red and orange and stuff which is cold. Not that, not that you’re not hot, I mean obviously that was the joke, but I wasn’t like, coming onto you, oh god.” Dean facepalmed, because his dignity was already a distant memory.

“You’re a nerd,” he said wonderingly.

And yeah, guess that cat was out of the bag, too. “Sorry,” he said to his boots. So much for a night of escape.

The Rider’s own boots came into his line of vision as he stepped very, very close. With one hand he reached around Dean to set the extra helmet on the seat, and with the other he shut off the bike. Headlight gone, the lights of the city glowed bright on the other side of the river. The silence was loud. “Don’t be sorry,” the Rider said. “I like it.”

Unbelieving, Dean raised his eyes and looked into the deep-space dark of his helmet’s visor. The Rider lifted his gloved hands to its edge as he watched, but without thinking Dean grabbed them and pulled them back down. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but if the Rider had a face, Dean couldn’t imagine it anymore. Not that he was imagining anything in particular; he was just imagining _him_ , the Cool Rider, a modern cowboy riding his steel horse through the dead of night, wild and free. But if he had a face, if he even had a name, he’d be something sickeningly normal like some sales exec named Jimmy, and Dean’s dream would be gone.

To Dean’s relief, the Rider didn’t fight him on it. He did the turn the tables on Dean’s grip, and pulled his hands up onto his shoulders. Slowly, lightly, he wrapped his arms around Dean’s back and pulled him in until his chest was flush against warm leather. Dean’s hands crept over the Rider’s shoulders, up his neck, and to his jaw, feeling the rough dark stubble. Given the angle of the light and the size of the visor his lips were mostly in shadow, but they looked soft and full. Dean kissed them.

The Rider kissed him back, arms tightening around him. His kisses were slow, sweet like honey. It allowed Dean to savor every moment, live completely in the now. There was nothing outside their bubble of lamplight; the entire universe consisted of Dean, the bike, and the Rider. There was neither the past and the dangerous people that lurked there, nor was there the future and the new trials it would bring. There was no end to the night. It stretched out before them like the open road, no destination in mind. Just leather and lips and kisses.

Dean opened his mouth, coaxed the Rider into taking the lead. He didn’t jump in with the rushed energy of a drunken one-night stand, or take rough, biting possession. The Rider swept in with confidence and control of a man who knew exactly what he was capable of. Took what was offered to him and nothing more. Gave Dean everything he needed. Christ, were his knees actually going weak? It might have just been exhaustion, because after an age of deep, tingling kisses his mouth went slack. He dragged his wet lips across the Rider’s stubbled jaw and dropped his head onto his shoulder. The Rider adjusted their embrace, arms steady across his back, body soft to the touch but harder than steel, supporting Dean’s weight with no effort. He was so fucking solid, like nothing could get through him. In that moment, Dean believed it. Tears pricked in his eyes. He couldn’t even remember the last time he didn’t have to be a son or a brother or a worker or anything that someone needed. With the Rider holding him, he could stand there and just _be_.

But time moved on, and eventually the Rider slid his arms to Dean’s waist and gently steadied him back on his feet. “Let me take you home,” he said, voice even deeper, darker than before. And wasn’t that something. His bike, the design on it, his strength, his perfection. Maybe he rode out there in the blackness of space, took hairpin turns around planets and stars. Another celestial body. Dean’s leather-clad angel. His Cool Rider.

Dean trusted him. He was a stranger, but he trusted him. Dean had walked too close to the devil not to recognize it in someone, and the Rider was not that. “Take me home,” he agreed, and picked up his helmet. The Rider swung his leg over the bike and started it with one kick. Once Dean’s helmet was secure he slid in behind the Rider. It felt natural, like the seat had been built to fit the two of them, snug as it was. That just meant that Dean got to hold him closer.

Dean directed him to the end of his block. The Rider pulled over and idled on the curb; Dean handed over his helmet. “Thanks,” said Dean.

“My pleasure,” the Rider answered.

Dean put his hands in his pockets. The Rider still had his helmet tilted toward him. The bike rumbled, echoing off the surrounding apartment buildings.

“May I pick up some other time? Maybe go for a real ride, show you what she can do?”

Dean’s heart leapt. “Sure,” he said. “The diner at midnight. Weekdays.”

The Rider said nothing, but his sexy smirk was answer enough. He tapped two fingers to his helmet in farewell and with a roar of the engine, rode away.

Dean walked down the street toward his apartment and prayed it wasn’t just a dream.


	5. Rumble in the Scrapyard

Dean didn’t forget the threat that still hung over his head, because Alastair was not the type to forget a person who’d wronged him. But as days past and no word came from Vic or Jody, and no rumors came to the garage through customer or phone, and no strangers passing through for a late-night diner burger mentioning a gang of nasty, red-flamed motorcycles, he relaxed in increments.

He kept his promise to Castiel and kept studying hard. It wasn’t always easy to find time, though, because everywhere Dean went he was busy. People wanted cars and bikes tuned up for vacations, the weather was warm enough for people to flock to the diner and buy milkshakes in droves, and who the hell knew that musical rehearsals got this crazy? Especially since it turned out that Marie was demanding real purple goo for the evil monster’s death, not just like, implied goo. The first time they tried it out the goo got fucking everywhere, the poor band kids in the orchestra pit getting the worst of it. Between Kevin Tran screeching about his cello and Marie screeching that it needed to be even bigger and a bepurpled Cas sitting in the front row, blinking, a spray of goo on the empty seats all around him—it was chaos.

Somehow Cas still found his way to the diner most nights to get his work done anyway, and Dean sat with him on break, or when it was quiet in the later hours, and got work done of his own. And whenever it became too much, when he couldn’t smile at one more customer or do one more practice test or live inside his skin a single minute longer for having brought danger to his family, the Cool Rider always seemed to know.

That was the only explanation, because there was no other pattern to it. No certain days or number of times per week. Just Dean, depressed and exhausted, walking out the door to find his Rider waiting for him. Without a word, he’d hold out the extra helmet and abscond with Dean into the night. Some days they’d just go back to the river park and make out until Dean was a puddle in his arms, but a lot of times they just rode. They’d hop on the highway aiming out of the city, riding for miles and miles on empty asphalt just to feel the engine purr. The yellow lines unspooled before them in the bike’s bright headlight, the topography of the prairie gently rising and falling as they sped past like the breathing of some great, ineffable thing. Before turning around to head back home, they’d exit the highway and hare off deep into the country, onto gravel roads or fields that the bike handled no problem. The first time they’d come up to a rural intersection stop sign Dean had dug his fingers into the Rider’s jacket and held his breath, fully expecting him to breeze through like most people. But he slowed, stopped, actually turned his head to look both ways. Dean had sighed in relief. His trust hadn’t been misplaced.

Whenever they found a perfect spot free from light pollution, they’d stop. For a while Dean might perch off the side of the bike, the Rider standing between his legs and gifting him with lazy kisses. But for the most part—and Dean had no intention of admitting this to anyone ever—he stood and looked up at the stars, bright white and innumerable; he traced the blue and purple swathes of the Milky Way across the endless Great Plains sky. The Rider looked too, or so Dean assumed. He was usually standing pressed against Dean’s back, arms wrapped around his front, a steadfast column to lean on. Sometimes they were content to be silent, nothing but the insects’ chirps for company. Other times they talked, never about jobs or names or places. They talked about the stars, the constellations each of them knew. Dean talked about how he’d sit in the driveway with his dad while he taught him the parts of an engine. The Rider talked about an old blue bicycle, and pumping the pedals faster and faster until he was flying.

As late as it often was when he dropped him back at the diner, or at home if Sam had the Impala, it did more wonders to rejuvenate Dean than a full night’s sleep ever could.

***

One night in early May, Dean snuck into his apartment at two in the morning to find the lights on, and Sam on the couch playing a video game. “The hell are you still doing up?” he asked. “You have school tomorrow.”

“You have work tomorrow,” Sam retorted, eyes trained on the TV.

“Don’t give me lip,” said Dean. He tossed his bag onto the kitchen table and took the three steps to stand by the couch, hands on his hips.

After a few seconds Sam paused the game and looked up. “Who is he?”

“Who’s who?”

“Come on, Dean,” said Sam, rolling his eyes behind his shaggy bangs. “You think I don’t hear his motorcycle when he drops you off? I know he’s the biker who saved the day at the alley. When were you going to say something?”

“This is what you stayed up for? Dude.”

“Yeah, it is.” Sam crossed his arms, then winced. For his eighteenth birthday they’d gotten matching tattoos on their chests, a star encircled by flames. It was an old symbol their mom used to have on her leather jacket. Sam scratched at it through his t-shirt.

Dean smacked his hand away. “You know better.”

“Dean,” Sam whined. “I worry about you too, you know.”

Sighing, Dean plopped down next to him on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. “The bike’s a 1967 Honda 305 Scrambler. He restored most of it himself. He kisses like a god.”

“Ugh, TMI!” Sam shoved his shoulder hard. “I mean like, what’s his name? Does he have a job? Does he live around here or what?”

Dean closed his eyes; this was exactly why he’d been keeping his late night trysts with the Rider to himself. If other people intruded into their universe, there would be questions. “I don’t know.”

“What does that mean, you don’t know?”

“Exactly what I said, Sammy.”

“…He won’t tell you?”

Dean opened his eyes and rolled his head along the back of the couch to face his brother. “I won’t let him,” he admitted softly. “Haven’t even seen his face. His visor covers his eyes but not his mouth, so I can see that part but—oh my god. Mask, deep voice, cool ride, only active at night. He’s Batman.” Dean blinked up at the ceiling, stunned.

Sam did not give this revelation the consideration it deserved. “I don’t blame you for wanting a good time,” he said, “but don’t you think that keeping anonymous is a little risky?”

“Nah,” said Dean. “We just established he’s a superhero, remember?”

“Please take this seriously,” Sam pleaded. “What if he works for the Hellraisers?”

“No way,” said Dean. He sat up and brought a leg onto the couch to better turn toward Sam. “I know from his bike alone. Gotta trust me on that. He’s good people.”

“Yeah, well, if he’s good, why don’t you want to know who he is?” Sam looked at him beseechingly, puppy eyes out en force. “If you like him so much, maybe you could be happy together.”

“I don’t think so,” said Dean. “Like you said, it’s just a good time.”

“Without sex?”

“Dude!”

“I’m just saying that if you guys had sex you would’ve been bragging about it by now!” Sam said, unrepentant. Asshole. “You’ve gone out with this guy more than a dozen times on these super vanilla dates—”

“ _Dude_!”

“—so you obviously like him. But he’s not Batman. He’s a person, you know? And he obviously likes you back because he keeps taking you out, but from his perspective you don’t even see him. How do you think he feels?”

Like shit, when it’s put like that. Dean picked at the hole forming at the knee of his jeans. He knew Sam was right, but it was hard to let go of the fantasy. If Dean learned his name, they could still escape together, couldn’t they? But then the age-old fear swam to the surface, the one that torpedoed him whenever he found himself smiling at Cas a little too often. _You_ _’re not good enough for him._

Maybe the Rider enjoyed his anonymity. Maybe he really didn’t want to get to know Dean any better. Thought he was only good enough to pick up now and then for a night out, but not good enough for something more.

Then another feeling surged in his chest, small but bright. The small seed that grew every time his scores rose on his practice tests. The thing that blossomed when he’d taken a chance on the Rider, and was rewarded a hundredfold. The one that pulsed _what if, what if, what if._

What if I _am_ good enough?

What if I _do_ try?

What if I _do_ succeed?

What if I _am_ better than what Alastair taught me to be?

It might have been Dean’s choice to set the status quo, but maybe it was time to offer the Rider a chance to change it.

“Alright, point taken,” said Dean. “Now get your ass to bed, squirt.”

Sam squawked with indignation. “I’m taller than you!”

“Whatever you say, shortstack.”

“Shut up, Dean!”

***

Castiel rolled his bike to a stop near the Impala, where she was waiting patiently at the diner for Dean’s return. When Dean slid off the back of the bike, Cas immediately missed his warmth. Still he smiled when Dean handed him his helmet. He loved Dean all the time but he treasured moments like this, when he radiated the softness he so often hid. Sometimes Cas wished he could whisk Dean away on his bike forever, leave their baggage behind and travel light for the rest of their lives. As it was, he settled for allowing Dean this escape whenever it seemed he needed it most—and sometimes when Cas needed it most, too.

Tonight Dean lingered. It wasn’t entirely unusual behavior for him; Cas never wanted their nights to end either. He lifted a gloved hand and traced the edge of Dean’s lips, ached to feel his skin with his bare fingers. Dean cupped the hand to his face and leaned into it for a moment, closing his eyes. When he raised his head he didn’t release Cas’s hand. Instead he clung to it, their joined hands a bridge between them. “I, uh, got something to ask you,” said Dean. “You don’t gotta answer right now, but…hold on.” He let go of his hand and dug into his pocket for his car keys; when he opened the Impala he leaned in with one leg still outside of the car, rummaging through his bag. When he popped back out he as holding a ticket. “So my little brother’s been working on this musical at the high school,” he said. “I helped them out a bit, when I had the time. I want you to come see it with me.” He sucked on his bottom lip, then continued, “Obviously you can’t wear your helmet inside the theatre, though. Just think about it.” He offered him the ticket, his whole body a study in vulnerability.

Heart pounding, Castiel took the ticket. “Thank you,” he choked out.

Dean blushed and ducked his head. “Sure. Uh, see you there. I mean later! Whenever.” He stepped backward toward his car, arm moving wildly to find the door handle behind him. “Great. Good night!” With a little wave he fumbled his car back open and folded himself inside.

Usually it was Castiel who did the leaving, Dean a lone figure shrinking in his mirrors. But Cas sat there in the parking lot as the Impala rumbled to life and carried Dean away. The small ticket sat in his hand, a heavy weight.

All that night he tossed and turned. Two tickets sat on the nightstand: one for Castiel, and one for the biker that everyone still talked about Thursday nights at Harvelle’s. He stared at them, gleaming white and ghostlike in his dark bedroom.

Dean’s wish to actually take it further elated him, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that it was because of Castiel himself. Dean wanted more escape, more of whatever he saw when he looked at the ‘Cool Rider’ on his cool ride. But he feared Dean’s disappoint when he discovered it was just plain Cas. What if Dean could only love him back for the fantasy he needed, but not for the man Castiel was?

***

The night the musical opened, Dean arrived at the high school very early. He and Donna were there to help with any last minute stuff. It was weird Cas wasn’t there, but he’d texted Dean that he was going to be there a little later, so Dean didn’t worry too much. Besides, Marie had things well in hand backstage with some last minute direction and Maeve was busy being a boss up in the booth, ready to call the show, Sam manning the light board at her side. When the first audience members started trickling in, he snuck back out to the parking lot and left the kids to it. (Some people were already settling in the front row without bothering to take one of the free ponchos the ushers were handing out. Dean snickered. They were gonna really love the finale.)

The sun didn’t set ‘til closer to nine o’clock these days, so the evening sun still cast a warm light on the big, sandy brick school behind him. He rocked up on his toes and tried not to fidget too much with his hair; he’d styled it a little bit more than usual. Instead he smoothed down his black button-up shirt, though he’d already ironed it before he’d left to Sam’s relentless teasing. He still wore jeans, of course. Dean didn’t want to dress too formally, because it was a high school musical, for one, and for another he was half-expecting his Rider to show up in full leathers anyway. If he even came.

The parking lot closest to the auditorium entrance began filling up. He couldn’t focus on his phone for more than a few seconds at a time, so he people-watched. Parents hurried inside with excited smiles; kids piled out of cars in groups to see and be seen at a big school event. They arrived in sedans, SUVs, clunkers, but a motorcycle engine not to be heard among them. Charlie and Billie arrived together in Charlie’s yellow Gremlin, because they were awesome fucking friends who’d suffer through a high school musical to support him. Charlie waved when she caught sight of him across the lot and they veered toward him away from the flow of people streaming into the building. “Are you waiting for us?” she asked.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dean teased.

“You wound me!” she gasped, clutching her chest. She threw the back of her other hand dramatically to her forehead and collapsed against Billie’s side.

Dean tried not to smile. “Save it for the stage.”

Billie pushed Charlie back upright. “Who are you waiting for, then?”

“Who says I’m waiting for anyone?”

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “The way you fiddle with your necklace when you’re nervous is a pretty good tell.”

Dean snatched his away from his neck. He hadn’t even noticed.

It was a mistake, because they both grinned at him. Tacit admission of guilt. “We’re not going inside until you tell us,” said Charlie gleefully.

“Go away,” Dean grumped.

“Nice night out, isn’t it?” Billie asked nonchalantly, stationing herself next to Dean with her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket.

Charlie hooked her elbow around Billie’s and sighed happily. “Gorgeous. What a shame it would be to go into that dark, stuffy theatre!”

Dean huffed. “If I tell you will you go inside?”

“Maybe,” they said together.

He didn’t really have a choice, Dean supposed. If his Rider showed up and things went well, Sam wouldn’t keep his mouth shut about it for long, and maybe Dean wouldn’t be able to either. And if the Rider didn’t show up, he was probably going to need a solid night out drinking with his friends. “I’ve got a date.”

Charlie gasped in delight and Billie gave him a wicked grin.

“A _potential_ date.”

“The hell does that mean?” asked Billie.

“I gave him a ticket. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna show.” His eyes strayed back to the street across the parking lot, scanning for a familiar dark figure.

“A he, nice!” said Charlie. “Who is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, still not looking at them.

Billie nudged him with her free elbow. “Try again.”

Dean sighed shortly. “Fine. It’s the guy. You know, the Cool Rider.”

A took a second for the penny to drop. “From the bowling alley?!” Charlie screeched. “Since when have you been hanging out with him? Who is he? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It’s still new,” he hedged.

“Hmph,” said Billie.

“He’s holding out on us,” Charlie agreed. “Like, where did you even run into him again?”

“The diner,” Dean said, exasperated. “Can we stop with the third degree already?”

“Absolutely not,” said Charlie. “Who else has seen him at the diner? Rufus? Has Cas seen him?”

Speaking of, Dean looked at this phone. The show was starting in almost ten minutes, and there was still no sign of Cas or any new messages. “Hey, I didn’t see Cas come in yet. Either of you notice him?”

Charlie shook her head, red hair flying. “Nope.”

Billie was scanning the lot. “That him?” she asked, pointing.

Dean glanced over expecting Cas’s hatchback, but in that moment he heard it: the rumbling purr of the sweetest motorcycle engine in the world. A black-clad figure on a classic bike covered in blue flame. The Cool Rider had come.

“To be honest,” said Charlie, “I kinda thought you were lying.”

The three of them stared as the Rider turned into the large lot. He was halfway across it heading for their position when Dean came back to himself. “Oh shit,” he said. “A little privacy, guys?” He pushed a little at Billie’s shoulder, but she was implacable.

“We’re just looking out for you,” she reasoned.

“What she said,” Charlie nodded.

And he called these nosy assholes his friends. Didn’t they realize he was about to have a moment, here?! “At least gimme some space, come on!” He stepped in front of them and tried to herd them backward, the bike’s rumbling quickly getting louder behind him.

“Fine,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes. Billie just smirked as she let herself get guided closer the building. When they backed up as far as the flagpole, Dean figured that was good enough. He could feel their eyes on him even after he turned around. The Rider was idling at the curb, waiting.

Dean cleared his throat and surreptitiously wiped his hands on his jeans as he walked back to the curb. It was a very brisk walk, and that was totally the only reason he was a little breathless when he said, “Hi.”

“Hello.” The Rider had his helmet and jacket on, but he was wearing a dark pair of jeans that ended neatly over his black boots. Dean bet they looked just as good when he was standing up.

“Coming to the show?” Dean asked.

“I do have a ticket,” he answered. After a brief hesitation, the Rider raised his hand to his helmet and undid the strap. Dean practically vibrated in anticipation as he began he lifting the helmet off. The Cool Rider revealing himself at last.

A vicious roll like thunder.

Everyone in the parking lot whipped their heads around to look. Five motorcycles were speeding down the road and careening into the parking lot. Ugly-ass choppers with ape hangers and garish fire paint jobs.

“Hellraisers,” the Rider snarled. In less than a second he went from relaxed to a coiled panther crouched over his bike, ready to spring. He revved his engine. “I’ll draw them off,” he shouted over it. “Just call the cops, Dean!” With that he kicked off straight into a hairpin turn and gaining momentum, aimed himself straight toward the oncoming gang, the strap of his helmet flapping after him, still undone.

“Wait!” Dean leapt after him, but before he could get far Billie’s iron grip yanked him back by the arm. Charlie ran up to his other side, already on the phone with someone.

The Rider was speeding up, but so were the others and the parking lot just wasn’t that big. It was a high-speed, split-second game of chicken and if the Rider miscalculated even an inch—

No, he was too good to let the Hellraisers get the best of him. Their choppers were built for cruising, nothing like the light and agile Scrambler. The Rider found an opening and slashed through it, splitting the group. Three of the bikers were forced to veer off in one direction; two of the them were forced toward Billie, Charlie, and Dean. Hurriedly they jumped back off the asphalt. Dean recognized the club members instantly as they drew near and sped past: Abaddon and Rami. They weren’t the low-level flunkies that had tagged along with Az at the bowling alley. These bastards were only subordinate to Alastair himself. Bad, bad news.

The Hellraisers leaned low over their bikes and rode down aisles on either side of the lot, making pedestrians jump out of their way. The Rider stopped in the middle of the main lot entrance on the far side opposite the school, which meant he was effectively blocking any more cars from getting in. He ignored the honking and waited for all five of the other bikers to curve back round the sides and meet him in the middle. When Dean saw the Hellraisers flank him all the way across the lot he tried to escape Billie and Charlie again, but they caught him after a step.

The engines were loud even from that distance, and they could hear shouts being traded back and forth, but not quite what. It must have been really something, though, because suddenly the Rider shifted into gear and rode out into the street. All five of the Hellraisers wasted no time in following, peeling out of the lot to make chase. They didn’t even look back.

Slowly, the cars started entering the lot again. Dean looked wildly around for Baby before remembering he’d parked her in a smaller side lot closer to the backstage door. “Charlie, give me your keys.”

She angled her phone away from her mouth. “Why?”

“I’ve got to follow them! The hell do you mean, why?!” Dean yelled.

“We are not squeezing into my car for a high speed chase,” she sniped. She angled her phone back. “No, Vic, I told him we _weren_ _’t_ going to follow them.”

Losing patience, Dean tried to swipe them from her pocket but she skipped out of reach. “Give me your fucking keys!” he snarled.

“Hey!” said Billie. “Calm down.”

“Now is not the time to calm down!”

“It is if I say it is,” she said, pressing a palm to his chest.

Dean shrugged her off a couple paces and tugged at his hair, completely fucking up the styling. “He needs our help!”

“He can handle himself fine,” Billie said firmly. “Unless you know something we don’t?”

“I know what they’ll do if they catch him.” Huffing a bitter laugh he pinched his nose, really trying not to fucking lose it.

“Hey,” said Billie, softly this time. She came up to him and cupped his elbows. She waited until he met her eyes. “Charlie’s got everyone on the look out.”

Charlie wiggled her phone, off now. “It’s true!”

“So we’ve already done as he asked. He doesn’t need anything else from you right now. You know who does? Those kids in there.”

Dean set his jaw.

“When the show’s over,” Billie continued, “and they search the audience for the people they look up to, when your brother comes down out of the booth, who do you think they’re gonna want to see?”

“Alright, alright,” he mumbled.

“Sweet!” said Charlie, trying to brighten the mood. They each took one of Dean’s arms and guided him toward the door, where ever more people were trying to crowd in. “I hope there’s seats left in the front row. Heard it was gonna get all Gallagher up in here.”

“Hell no,” said Billie. “This jacket’s expensive.”

Once their tickets were taken, they walked into the auditorium and took stock. Dean was too distracted to take a side in his friends’ continued bickering about what area to sit in, but the point became moot when Donna hurried up to them. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she told Dean. “Hiya, girls! Where’s Castiel?”

That was enough to lift Dean from his fugue. “He’s not here?”

“No, he’s not with you?” The three of them shook their heads “Oh, well.” Donna fluttered a hand to wave it off. “I’m sure he’ll be right in. We’ll save him the sit on the aisle.” She bustled through the crowd and they followed in her wake to a row near the back. Charlie groaned in disappointment.

Somehow in the shuffle Donna went in first, followed by Billie and Charlie. Dean sat at the end, but for one. A conversation started up between the women about the Carver Edlund books, and while normally Dean would be all about it he didn’t have the heart to listen in. He checked his watch; the show was starting in five minutes. Maybe Cas had been caught in the mini traffic jam the Rider had caused to keep people out of the Hellraisers’ way? Or maybe there’d been an accident—and instead of the image of a crushed Impala that usually flashed in front of his eyes at the thought, now there was a grisly scene of a Fiesta hatchback on its side and a motorcycle wheel spinning in the air. Blue flames swallowed by orange.

Was it Dean’s fault? Would the Rider have ever crossed the paths of the Hellraisers again if he hadn’t handed him a ticket? Or was it a stroke of luck? What had the Hellraisers planned to do at the high school? Had they come to threaten, or had they come to act? Did this one last leap of faith for the Rider reward him by staving off the Hellraisers again? The most pressing point, though, was whether Dean could believe his Rider would come out the other side unscathed regardless.

The lights dimmed in the theatre. Talking dropped to murmuring dropped to quiet. Dean jiggled his leg, staring at the empty seat next to him. Someone coughed. Then all at once the band struck their instruments, the red curtains swished back, and the lights burst bright over the stage ( _That_ _’s Sammy_ , a little voice piped up over the clamor of his worries). Fuck, where the hell was Cas? Dude was never late.

The first verse was almost over and Dean was five seconds away from sending out a search party when Cas finally slumped into the seat next to him. Between his wild hair and wrinkled button-up he looked rumpled and harried. “Where have you been?” Dean hissed.

“Dean—”

“I’ve been worried sick!”

“I have to tell you—”

The woman in the seat in front of them turned around and actually put a finger to her lips. “Shh!”

They both sat back, chastised. After a few seconds Cas leaned in to whisper in his ear. “We need to talk after the show. It’s important.”

“Are you okay?” Dean breathed back.

“Yes. Just don’t forget.”

Before Dean could agree Charlie slapped her arm out to the side and smacked both of them in the chest. “Zip it!”

They zipped it.

Dean was still ramped up, despite some of his tension easing at Cas’s arrival. He closed his eyes, took a couple deep breaths, and tried to focus on the show. Siobhan was singing her heart out right now, and she deserved some listening to. After several seconds, he didn’t have to force himself anymore. The kids were doing a great job. The audience was loving it, laughing and gasping at all the right parts. Donna had done a killer job designing the set and Dean allowed himself a bit of pride at the pieces he’d lent a hand to build. The costumes, the lights, the music; everything was fantastic, and not a single speck of it would exist without Cas. When the song was over Dean applauded enthusiastically, casting a grin at his friend. Whatever it was he’d wanted to talk about must not be bothering him too much, because Cas was grinning right back.

The musical carried on. The demon-hunting brothers and their angel best friend fought monsters and laughed and cried and sang all the while. Even the parts he’d balked at when first reading the script Dean loved, because Marie and the others had done an amazing job bringing them to life. Sure, the robots were a little hokey but the audience was into it. And then the mother of all monsters was belting her song into the rafters and the heroes were in mortal peril. Without realizing it Cas and Dean reached for each other and clutched hands over the armrest as the music swelled. The monster raged. The heroes fought. Then at last they took her out by a stake to the heart, and the purple goo fanned out in a spectacular arc that splatted the first three rows and rained on a few more.

Utter silence.

Then a clap. Another. A man soaked in purple from head to toe stood in the front row and clapped, and the audience rose up in a wave behind him. Dean and Cas sprung onto their feet, jumping up and down and yelling. They were still holding hands, and realized it at the same moment. They paused amid the audience’s noisy appreciation, sharing a look of pride for the kids and happiness for a job well done. Dean pulled Cas in, or maybe Cas pulled Dean, but the result of it was they were hugging and laughing and for a moment, the world was good.

When the hug was over, they didn’t go far. Their arms were still loosely draped over each other’s shoulders and waists, noses mere inches away. A spike of adrenaline shot up Dean’s spine. They were sharing breath and Cas’s eyes fell to Dean’s lips. Dean leaned in.

“DUDES!” Charlie half jumped onto Dean’s back, hugging and shaking him. “That was amazeballs!”

Dean stumbled and Cas jerked away. Billie joined in on piling over Dean, and Donna shoved her way past to give Cas a great big bear hug. And then the audience was pushing them out of the row, people were milling in the aisles, cast and crew shrieked out in the hallway as they excitedly greeted family and friends. Kids covered in goo were making a game out of slapping handprints on the people around them; parents yelled at them to stop standing on the chairs. Chaos was everywhere, and by the time Dean was swept out of the auditorium and pounding Sammy on the back for his awesome techie skills, Cas was nowhere to be found.

***

It was Sunday, and the show was over. The set was struck, the stage swept, the goo scrubbed away. The kids were still high with their success, but for Dean it was bittersweet. The show being over meant the school year was almost over, and sooner than he’d like Sam would be graduating and gearing up for college at Stanford, and Cas would be graduating and going who knows where. He’d been applying for teaching jobs all over the region, but had said he likely won’t know anything concrete until midsummer. And as always, his Rider was in the back of his mind…

He tried not to dwell. The Rider was fast, and clever. No way the Hellraisers had got to him. He was probably lying low, that’s all.

Dean couldn’t let it bother him, not when it was time for the big musical wrap party/early graduation bash had planned for Sam and the other seniors—and Cas with his masters, of course.

The last bowl of chips was set out, and Sam pounded up the stairs to touch up his hair, or whatever he did to primp himself. Dean followed quietly after him, and sat on his bed in the room the brothers shared. Sam left the bathroom and started when he saw Dean was there. “What?” he asked.

“Got an early graduation present for you,” said Dean.

“Yeah?” Grinning, Sam rounded his bed and plopped down facing Dean. “What is it?”

Dean reached under his pillow, where he’d hidden it in anticipation of this. He pulled the paper out and handed it over.

Sam gave him a curious look, but started reading. “Certification of high school equivalency…” The penny dropped. “Is this a GED? Did you get your GED?!” The utter surprise clinched it; Dean really had snuck all that studying under Sam’s nose. Well, he was a busy kid. Dean stood and pulled Sam in for a hug. Sam squeezed him back, almost clinging. “Proud of you, Dean.”

“Shut up,” he answered, but couldn’t stop smiling. Dean pulled back and put his hands on either side of Sam’s head, forcing him to pay attention. “I’m proud of _you_ , Sammy. You got into a good school, and you’re gonna do great things. This piece of paper here? This means that you don’t gotta worry about me anymore, alright? You just worry about taking care of you.” Sam nodded, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. Dean thought a moment. “It also means I technically still graduated before you, bitch.”

Sam shoved him off, laughing. “Jerk.”

The brothers hugged again, and after a sincere promise from Sam that he’d let Dean do the telling to everyone else, they went downstairs. By the noise of it, some people had already arrived. Outside the late May sun shone warm on the early partygoers, pouring punch and putting together tacos. The Singers may be hosting, but Dean had enlisted all of his friends to help decorate and they hadn’t let him down. Party streamers were set up in makeshift fences around parts of the property, guiding incoming cars on where to park in the gravel and grass. Strings of lights were everywhere, over the trees and the tables and the vehicles nearby in the yard. It was going to look fantastic once the sun went down. Several tables were set up in stations, the drinks of course, the taco bar, chips and dip, fixings for all the meat that was gonna come off the grill, courtesy of Bobby and Rufus. The adult bar was inside, to be manned at all times by one of the hosts, so Dean made sure to grab a beer before he followed Sam out.

He hung out with the other adults as the yard began to fill up, content to watch Sammy laugh and run around with his friends. But some of the theatre kids still wanted to come up and say hi, and soon enough he was milling out in the crowd with everyone else. Within an hour the Singer’s Salvage was packed; there were definitely more people than had been invited, but luckily they’d accounted for that in the massive amount of snacks they bought. Everywhere Dean turned there was someone else he knew, so it was only a matter of time before he ran into Cas. And fuck, did he look good, just wearing some jeans and a plain shirt that did nothing to hid his muscles. Cas brightened when he saw him, holding up his phone and wiggling it like that should mean something. “Dean! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“What’s up?”

“I just got off the phone with—” He stopped and looked around at all the people nearby, and shook his head. He got a firm grip on Dean’s shoulder and steered him through the party, eventually landing them back by the small shed, far from the food and therefore, the crowd. “I just got off the phone with Naomi.”

“Something happen?”

“Yes, but you have to promise not to tell.”

Well, no way he was going to miss whatever this juicy gossip was, since Cas was so worked up about it. Dean mimed zipping his lips.

“It’s official. Principal Metatron’s being let go after graduation.”

“Fuck yeah!” said Dean, lifting his beer in a toast.

“Wait,” Cas hissed, pressing his arm back down. “There’s more. One of the vice principals is going to get his spot, which leaves an opening for another vice, which they’ve offered to Naomi.”

“I bet she’s not passing that up.”

“Of course not,” Cas agreed. His blue eyes were practically glowing, his grin growing so big Dean could see his gums.

Then it clicked. “Hunter High’s gonna need a new math teacher,” said Dean.

“Yes.”

“She thinks you’re gonna get it?”

“Yes!”

“Holy shit!” Dean pulled Castiel into a hug, probably sloshing some beer down his back at the force of it, but he didn’t have the capacity to care. Castiel wasn’t leaving. Castiel was graduating but he wasn’t leaving! “Oh, that reminds me.” Dean stepped back and dug in his pockets, pulling out a clip-on bow tie. “Graduation present. You know, to complete your nerdy math teacher get-up.”

Cas laughed, nose crinkling, and plucked it from his hand. “I love it.”

“Uh, one more thing,” said Dean, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “I got my GED.”

“W-what?”

“I passed all the tests. I got my GED.”

The slack look of shock on Cas’s face slowly morphed into joy. “You did it! Why didn’t you tell me, you asshole!” Cas was the one that pulled Dean into a hug this time, and he dropped his beer, giving it up for a lost cause.

“Didn’t want anyone to know in case I failed,” he admitted.

“Course you didn’t fail,” said Cas. He gave Dean an irritated squeeze for emphasis, and it was no joke. Dean wasn’t a slouch but Castiel was rock fucking solid. Never used to think nerdy little dudes like him worked out, but Cas was surprising in a lot of ways. Like that kiss all those months ago in the bowling alley…god if he could go back now, would he do it differently? Try and start something with Cas, despite their differences, long before the Cool Rider came to complicate the picture? Or, if the Rider really was lying low, it could be a long time, and they’d made no promises. If Dean made a move now…

No. His Rider would trust Dean to wait for him. Dean knows he would. He might not know him as well as he knows Cas, but he at least knows that.

Reluctantly he dropped his arms and stepped out of the hug. Cas, though, he lingered, sliding his hands down the length of Dean’s arms. Dean shivered slightly at the goosebumps that rose in the trail of his fingers. The look on Cas’s face was some kind of torn. Some kind of scared. “Dean,” he started, but then the music cut off.

Every single speaker completely off, as if the power had been cut. If the lights hadn’t still been blinking all around, Dean might have been tempted to think it had. Conversation died down in the wake of the sudden silence, a confused murmur taking its place.

Then, motorcycle engines.

“No,” Dean breathed.

He knew in that moment, in his heart of hearts, that he’d hoped his Rider had been leading the Hellraisers on some merry chase far away. Fear burned in his throat as he ran through the crowd toward the front: fear for himself, his Rider, Sam, his family, and all the kids that were just here to have _fun_. “Get everyone back,” he called out over the noise. Still he pushed forward, heard Jody and Victor yelling instructions, felt more than saw Sam come up behind him, looming over his shoulder. He risked one look to seek out Cas, but he didn’t find him. Dean couldn’t worry about that now. The Hellraisers were here, deep in his sanctuary, Alastair and a dozen others in a motorcade behind him, eating up the entrance road fast. Dean placed himself square in the middle of where they’d need to drive between the house and the parked cars to reach the crowd. “Get back, Sammy,” he said.

“Not a chance,” Sam snarled.

Then there were more people behind him, instead of less: Jody and Victor first, then Donna; Karen and Bobby and Rufus; Charlie and Billie; Ellen and Jo; and then a bunch of kids, many of them the theatre geeks who’d been at the school when the Hellraisers first arrived. It was like his worst nightmare come to life. If the gang hurt one hair on those kids’ heads may Dean be damned to hell on the fucking spot.

Alastair didn’t slow until the last second. A few people took steps back, but Dean stood his ground. He didn’t even look down to watch his toes as Alastair rolled to a stop, his front tire scant inches away from hitting him. “Get the fuck out of here,” he said, “before we bring out the shotguns.”

Alastair lifted his mouth in a nasty curl. “Dean, Dean, Dean. No need for violence.” He leaned forward over his ape hangers. “Come back with us, and we’ll leave your party. Unless you want a dance, first?”

Dean growled and cocked his arm for a punch, but several hands held him still. “Backup is coming,” Jody hissed.

An oily laugh oozed from Alastair’s lips. “We can do a lot of damage before your backup gets here, sheriff,” he said. “And if you’re waiting for your own backup, Dean, I want you to know…he’s not coming.”

Every muscle, every bone and sinew in Dean’s body pulled tight at the words. But he had practice with the Hellraisers. He kept his face smooth, his voice light. “You don’t know that.”

“Oh, but I do. He liked all his silly trick jumps, didn’t he? It wouldn’t really be a surprise, would it, if he landed wrong?”

Abaddon propped her chin on her knuckles and tsked, red lips falling into a pout. “It was _such_ a shame.”

“You’re lying,” said Dean.

A chuckle swept through the club. “Cared about him, did you?” Alastair asked. “I’ve been asking around and no one seems to know who he was. Ah well. He’s dead now, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

Dean’s control was slipping. There was a slight tremor in his hands and a tear welled up in his eye, spilling over unchecked.

When Alastair saw it his face lit up in triumph. He stood, legs still either side of his bike, and pressed his advantage. “No one else has to die, Dean. Just say yes.”

The group of people around Dean crowded closer, Sam ready to tackle him at any moment, no doubt. But there was no need. He wasn’t going to let anyone else fight his battles, and this one was a long time coming. He wasn’t that kid Alastair had duped anymore. He was strong on his own, smarter than he thought, even, good for something more than just what he could do with his hands. And he had his own club behind him, more or less. Maybe this wasn’t going to end well, but somehow he found faith that it was enough. That he was enough. Dean smiled, but not the cold, dangerous one he’d learned in the Pit to keep the dogs at bay. It was a new smile, one that spoke of pain and love lost and hard-won experience. The sort of smile that said, _You have no power over me_.

Dean looked Alastair straight on and said, “No.”

The creep opened his mouth, but before whatever poison he’d concocted fell from it, a new engine sounded. It was coming from Dean’s right, past all the guests’ cars and into the scrapyard itself. They hadn’t heard it coming over the sound of the Hellraisers’ choppers because now it was close, very close, and Dean’s heart soared. It was the sound of his faith being vindicated. Then rev - bang! - rev - bang!: the Cool Rider was there, on the roof of an SUV. The sun was shining directly behind him, casting him as a living shadow looming large over the scene. It was fucking majestic.

“Impossible,” Alastair growled.

Dean’s Rider bared his teeth in a daredevil grin. “You can’t snuff the rooster,” he said, and jumped.

Elation lent Dean speed. Anticipating the move he’d already been trying to inch everyone to the side, and now he pushed everyone back to make space, and just in time. The Rider’s blue-flame bike flew down into the scene and clipped Alastair’s chopper, knocking it down trapping Alastair underneath. Some of the Hellraisers jumped to their feet, unsure whether they were supposed to help their leader. The Rider twisted his bike and landed neatly, facing them down. The partygoers gasped and cheered at the display.

As for his Rider, he revved his engine in preparation for his next move, and Dean took his chance to really admire the motorcycle in the daylight. It was truly gorgeous, a fine work of craftsmanship and restoration, the black, blue, and white of the paint gleaming, the chrome shining. The sound of its rumble—Dean’s breath caught. It really was an engine he knew, minus the dying whine; the frame he knew, minus the rust. The Cool Rider’s bike wasn’t just any bike. It was the bike he’d rescued from the Pit. Or the bike that had rescued him, depending on how you looked at it. Since when had it been sold? How did Dean’s Rider come to have it?

“Don’t just stand there!” Alastair shouted. “Get him!” The Hellraisers settled back in their seats, engines rumbling like thunder.

“Dean!” the Rider called over his shoulder. Dean blinked a few times, and looked up from the bike into the opaque shine of his helmet. That was all of his usual gear that he was wearing, actually, in jeans and not leathers, but he had no time to wonder. “Dean, get everyone in the house!” But Dean just stared back helplessly. Who _was_ he?

The Cool Rider didn’t wait for acknowledgment. With a spray of dirt he kicked his bike into gear and did a sharp turn in the grass. Then he rode pell-mell through the blue and green streamers separating the lot and disappeared into the scrapyard. The Hellraisers wasted no time following. They swerved around Alastair, Abaddon in the lead, whipping past Dean and the others without a backward glance. Within seconds they vanished as well; the air still rang with the sound of motorcycles being ridden hard, echoing between the labyrinth of cars.

“He was right,” said Jody. “In the house, now. No—Dean!”

But Dean was already running. He’d grown up in this scrapyard, knew it inside out, had climbed everyone of its towers as they’d shifted over time. He headed for one now, leaping to grab the edge of an open window on the second car up, then nimbly hauling himself from foothold to foothold. When he reached the top, boots stomping on the roof of the topmost vehicle, he did a 360. Looked like Jody and Victor had gotten most people inside; he saw both Karen and Rufus stalking the side of the house with shotguns, ready to defend the building if the need arose. Sam had climbed another car tower nearby, and Charlie was making her way up another. At least they’d be safe enough up top. Dean concentrated, then, on the scrapyard. He could still hear the gang, even see them in glimpses where they’d split up, crossing back and forth in the aisles. The classic Honda was often lost amid the uproar, and Dean often only heard it when the Rider was about to pull some stunt, hopping up and down cars like it was a damn playground before divebombing back into the maze like some bird of prey. Dean’s heart was in his throat, and not just out of worry—you’d have to know the yard better than Dean to be able to find the best ways to climb anywhere with a damn motorcycle with enough speed for any kind of tactical advantage. Which had to mean the Rider was someone they all knew, right? Someone around all the time, but no one was here more than Dean or the Singers.

A scream, followed by a crash. Dean and Sam craned their necks; Charlie scanned around with her phone. Was it a Hellraiser, or his Rider? He just couldn’t see where the crash had been coming from, and there were still plenty of people driving around. He scanned the gaps desperately, and only noticed a hand wrapping around his ankle too late.

“Gotcha,” said Alastair.

Dean didn’t even have time to shout before Alastair tugged. He hit the roof in a belly flop that knocked the wind out of him. Alastair tried using his grip on Dean’s leg to climb the rest of the way up, fingers digging into the meat of his thigh. In rage and disgust Dean twisted around and slammed his elbow square into his nose. Blood burst from his nostrils, but the bastard just grunted at the impact, barely even turning his head. It was going to take more than a little pain to lay Alastair out flat.

Squirming like an eel, Dean got his free leg in a good position and pounded his boot into Alastair’s chest. That loosened his grip just enough for Dean to kick out with both legs, and then Alastair was falling. The man’s hands scrambled, grabbing wildly at Dean on the way down, snagging at his jeans before finally letting go. Dean shouted as he slid off the side of the car after him, but years of practice had him finding purchase on the side of the tower; Alastair landed on his back in the dirt.

“Dean, what..?”

His shout had gotten Sam’s attention, but Dean waved him quiet, eyes fixed on Alastair’s form. He leaned against the tower, heels of his boots on the roof of one car, right arm draped over the roof of the one above. Staring down at him from above, as Alastair used to do to Dean at the Pit.

Then Alastair caught his breath. A wheezing chuckle tripped from his chest, a grin appearing as a slash of white in the blood on his face. “You’re going to have try harder than that,” he said.

“Gladly,” said Dean, and taking a page out of his Rider’s book, he jumped.

Sam and Charlie were shouting something behind him, but he had no time to process what; he landed on top of Alastair, knee straight to the stomach. Alastair gasped an _oof!_ but only took two punches from Dean’s clenched fist before he joined the fight. He flipped them over, and then they were rolling around in the dirt. Alastair had years of experience on him, but he’d already made his fatal mistake when he taught Dean all of his tricks. They each got in their jabs, twisting their limbs around each other to find an advantage. Dean could smell the blood and feel the heat of his breath they were so close. Adrenaline and anger got him through the pain, nothing distracting him long enough for Alastair to gain the upper hand, and the man knew it. So the next time he found an opening, he didn’t hit Dean—he groped his ass instead.

The split second shock of it was all Alastair needed. In a flash he had Dean down on his stomach, crushed into the ground. There came that wheezing laugh again and then Alastair dipped his head down to lick the shell of Dean’s ear. Dean snarled and tried to shake him off, but no dice. “I’m going to cut you open,” said Alastair, “pull your intestines out while you watch, and string them up for the birds.”

“Kinky,” grunted Dean, trying for a smile though half his face was in the dirt. “Not my thing, though, sorry.”

“Do you think I’m bluffing?” Alastair hissed.

“Not here to find out,” said Victor, cocking his gun. “Off him, now.”

Alastair snaked an arm around Dean’s neck and pulled so that he was on his back, Dean on top with his legs wrapped around to hold him in place—effectively taking away Victor’s shot. Still, Victor remained cool and composed, gun held steady above them. Dean immediately hooked his hands into the arm choking him and tried to see what else was going on. Sam was on his other side, and made as if to move forward. But Alastair lifted his other arm and pointed a knife at him. Dean was close enough to see its edges were sharp and the metal clean, reflecting the evening sun in oranges and reds. Sam stopped in his tracks.

“I. Don’t. Bluff.” He flipped the knife around and brought it down to Dean’s belly.

Dean took a quick breath and switched from staving off one arm to the other. The one around his neck squeezed and Dean choked, putting all the last of his energy toward pushing away the knife. Victor and Sam leapt into action, but Sam was faster; he threw himself to their side and pulled the arm with the knife away, hands squeaking in the leather of Alastair’s jacket, face contorted in a grimace. Victor darted in and twisted Al’s wrist so that the weapon fell neatly into his palm. Spots were popping in Dean’s eyes, but he saw enough; with one last, almighty tug he pulled at the arm choking him and knocked his head back into Alastair’s already tender nose. He both felt and heard the crush of it breaking, causing Alastair to howl and give some slack.

He gulped in air, but didn’t pause. Dean twisted over, propped himself on his elbow, and with his right fist knocked Alastair the fuck _out_.

After a few more ragged breaths, Dean slid away from Alastair and sat on his ass. Sam crawled over and draped him in a hug, face buried in his neck. Dean patted his hand. Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Some party, Dean,” said Victor, examining the knife, but there was warmth beneath his customary smirk.

Somehow he found the energy to laugh. “Fuck you, dude.”

Charlie stepped into his line of sight. “Are you okay?” She was tapping her phone against her palm and biting her lip.

Dean eyed the phone with suspicion. “You recorded this shitshow? Really?”

“Evidence,” she said soberly, and handed the phone to Victor without another word.

The sirens grew louder. Some people tried venturing the from the house, but Jody shouted at the to get back inside. An ambulance was first to turn through the gates of Singer Salvage, then a trail of police cars not long after. “Jody said she knows this place pretty well,” said Vic as they watched them enter. “Got some guys from the sheriff’s department running the perimeter of the property with their trucks. Even if they try to jump the fence, they won’t get far.” He chuckled to himself as he walked away, off to greet some of the officers when they got out of their cars.

Dean let that news sink in. To have grabbed a couple lower-ranked members of the club was one thing, but to nab all the leaders and lieutenants in one fell swoop? Not having to look over this shoulder? And without fear of retaliation…he’d seen a lot, back in his Pit days. Maybe, if Victor and Jody thought it was safe, he could finally come clean about a lot more than a knife fight out in the country.

The sirens were off now; the paramedics ran toward Alastair since he was the guy out for the count. Sam and Dean stumbled to their feet to get out of the way. They headed toward the house, packed to the gills as it was, stepping over the food that had been dropped in the scramble for safety. Karen and Bobby were both on the back porch; Karen set down her shotgun and leapt down the stairs, trying to hug them both at once. “Get those idjits up here,” grumbled Bobby. His shotgun was still in his lap, and his eyes trailed the cops as they spread out and developed a game plan.

Karen gave them one last squeeze before nudging them toward the porch. Charlie was right behind them, and Karen pulled her into a hug, too. Sam and Dean leaned on the railing near Bobby, watching right along with him. The paramedics took Alastair away on a stretcher; off in the yard, there were still a few motorcycles riding around. When a couple engines got louder, the bikes sounding closer and closer, the cops fanned out and waited. They didn’t have to wait long—two Hellraisers roared into the clearing, one after the other. They braked hard when they saw all the guns pointing at them, dirt sprayed out of the grass in clumps. There was something immensely satisfying at seeing Dagon and Lilith turn off their choppers, slowly raising their hands to their heads and kneeling on the ground. In short order the two were handcuffed and taken away, and none too soon; another bike was coming.

Dean could never mistake her sound.

He darted around the others and flew off the porch. “It’s a friendly!” he yelled, waving. A couple cops popped up in his way, but he kept calling out. “It’s a friendly! It’s the Rider! Vic!”

Then there she was, the off-roader, covered in dirt with streamers hooked on, but still looking like quite the lady compared to the choppers being wheeled away. The Rider stopped on a dime, turning his bike on its edge to stop the momentum. He raised his hands, but otherwise didn’t move; his shirt was dark with sweat at the neck and arms. Dean held his breath.

“Off the bike,” came the order at last. “Wheel it out of the way and stay back.”

Fucking bless Victor, Dean could kiss him for convincing whoever he needed to convince. He stepped back from the cops and circled around the edge of the clearing, watching as the Rider wheeled his bike around the opposite edge, until they met in the middle, not far from the shed. The Rider kicked down the stand to park the bike and walked the last two steps alone. Dirt was smeared on his face and neck.

Dean shrugged off his flannel and gently rubbed the worst of it away. The Rider wrapped an arm around Dean’s waist to coax him closer, then tugged the flannel from his hand, dropping it at their feet. Dean shivered, staring wide-eyed at his reflection in the helmet’s visor. His Rider slid his other arm around his back, his fingers brushing the bare skin above his white tank, below the fine hairs on Dean’s neck. There was as little between them as there’d ever been: no bike, no leather, no jackets or flannels. No more fear. Dean undid the strap of the Cool Rider’s helmet and closed his eyes. He took a breath, then lifted and tossed it way. His hands found their place cradling the man’s jaw, rough with new stubble. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut.

“Dean,” said Cas.

With a gasp, Dean’s eyes popped open. It should have been the shock of his life, staring into those bright blue eyes, but it wasn’t. It felt more like the jagged edges inside of Dean were grinding, tilting just so, and finally clicking into something that fit. The nerd that raised him up; the rider that set him free. Just one man, after all. He slid his hands up and carded through Cas’s thick dark hair, as he’d been wanting to do for so, so long.

“I tried to tell you—”

Dean kissed him. Fingers curled into his hair, holding his head in place, Dean kissed Castiel in front of his family and the cops and everybody. Cas kissed him back just as fiercely, those arms gripping tight and fixing never to let go. They kissed, and then kissed deeper; there’d always been something holding them back from giving quite all of themselves to the other, but the barrier was gone and Dean drank love from Cas’s lips like a dying man in a desert. Only when it bordered on too much did he come up for air, pressing a last sloppy kiss to Cas’s cheek and relaxing into the embrace.

At length Cas’s arms let up, his hands trailing down and pushing at Dean’s waist. He grunted in denial. “Dean,” said Cas softly. “Please.” How could he refuse? Dean acquiesced and stepped back—but not too far. Cas’s eyes darted all over Dean’s face, and as if he couldn’t help himself, he planted a short kiss on his mouth before forcing himself back again. “I’m not just this guy who likes motorcycles and wears leather and looks cool.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” he said, almost pleading. He dug into his jean pocket and took out the bow tie Dean had given him, dangling it from his fingers. “This is me, too, just as much. I’ll always be a nerd, Dean.”

Dean laughed. “I _know_ , Cas.”

Cas looked adorably confused. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“You kidding me?” Dean answered. He took the tie and tossed the ribbon part around Cas’s neck, then clipped it together with the bow in the front. He adjusted his gift to make it sit just so. Wild sex hair? Nerdy bow tie? Dirty, sweaty t-shirt? This wasn’t his rider, or his nerd. This was Dean’s man. “Best of both worlds,” he grinned.


End file.
